


Heroin

by infradead



Category: Far Cry (Video Games), Far Cry 5
Genre: Character Death Fix, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eventual Smut, F/M, Manipulation, Slow Burn, Time Skips
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-05
Updated: 2018-08-17
Packaged: 2019-04-17 19:23:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 70,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14196015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/infradead/pseuds/infradead
Summary: You want to comprehend what aborn sinnerlike you, one that was far from saving, deserved. What should be corrected and carved into your flesh again by the hands of the Baptist himself, not greed or gluttony or pride, but true, deserving sin.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [EllariaSand](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EllariaSand/gifts).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> @ ubisoft y'all knew EXACTLY what you were doing. you wanted this. you wanted us to fuck the seed brothers.
> 
> not gonna dip into the stockholm syndrome--rook's gonna be a part of this show willingly. ;^)

Maybe John had been right all along.

Those five letters tattooed with all the care and finesse the Seed torture mastermind could behold, scorching against the fine layer of skin beneath a collarbone. The placement had purpose, one that a rookie deputy couldn't violate uniform protocol for just because you wanted to wear a turtleneck to hide the bruised and carelessly marred flesh.

It's his mark, his pride, his handiwork, and he knows it. He's drawn to it, even when you drag him up by the tight cord around his neck, bunker key dangling on it like fish to bait.

And his eyes are so, _so_ blue.

They're staring directly at where cool wind touches the dampness of your disheveled button-up, at that healing inflammation of a scar he's bestowed upon you. Your chest rises and falls in breathlessness, gloved hand tightening its hold onto the one rein you have over him, enough that the leather groans and the cord grows taut. Any harder and it'll snap.

"I was wrong," is his confession. Your brows furrow, deepen, and can't seem to find an answer to his words.

John's chuckle is born deep from his chest, airy and breezy against your dirt-matted cheek. "I was wrong about your sin."

_But you'd said yes to him then. You were **willing** to confess. To indulge in him what you'd sinned and be forgiven, born anew, truly free. You could be saved. You still **can** be._

The last time he had ever been so close to you was when he was literally on _top_ of you, buttons of your shirt ripped apart for all the canvas his glorious eyes could feast upon. Rousing you from your Bliss-induced stupor, dreaming of peculiar oddities, ruined buttons spread against the cement near his boots. If wrath wasn't your sin, then the discomforting heat clamping between your loins at the weight of his body straddling you down should count for something else entirely.

Those blue eyes had lingered too long then, against the angry red flesh that warmed beneath his fingers to keep you still. And they still do even now, beneath you, your weight against him this time, and it's his turn to be at your mercy. He deserves it, after all, right? For the multiple abductions, for the forceful _invitations_ , for the coercing of you and your friends to join him and his family's absolutely _mind-fucked_ cult.

But you want to know. You want to comprehend what a _born sinner_ like you, one that was far from saving, deserved. What should be corrected and carved into your flesh again by the hands of the Baptist himself, not greed or gluttony or pride, but true, deserving sin. Something else that you can feel stirring even beneath you, in those pure eyes--and between your legs.

Every reasonable nerve, every point of discretion you've ever learned and made in police training is _screaming_ at you to end this. Carved tattoos mirror your own, peeking against his chest there, sweat soaking into the fine silk of his disheveled button-up. Strain from the cord must be cutting into his neck, veins buzzing numb, but he stays put solidly, _obediently_ , as if patiently waiting with drawn breaths the curiosity of your actions. His lips are parted, breathless, eyes set in that Kubrick stare.

_This is so fucking wrong. On all levels, on **every** level and code of conduct that doesn't seem to give a rat's ass about fraternization._

Fuck it. You want to know. You _need_ to know. And his lips are exactly how you've imagined them, his startled intake of breath and all.

Nothing about the kiss is soft, not at first. You'd caught him off guard the moment your mouth latched onto his, hand fisting into his shirt, pulling him against your chest to touch that so-called wrath you'd been blessed with. Something within you frenzies when it doesn't quite connect--that feeling of hungering outrage, absolution, where your fingers should be clamped around his throat and tightening instead. It's only sparks smothering it to embers--some electrical charge, a magnetization.

You kiss him again to try and embrace that feeling, that _wrath_ , his lips unmoving, breath stifled. Only after another kiss do you realize those tattooed fingers braced against your taut wrist, his starved lips parting for gasping air between the fourth and fifth one you urgently press against him.

No. John had been wrong after all. _You_ know your sin.

You kiss him open mouthed, breathing hard through your nose when you hear that sound--the sound that rumbles against your chest, vibrates and shoots straight to your groin. John's moan. It's _breathtaking_ , and you want to hear it again, on a broken playback loop, like the way Bliss seeps and pours into your veins and scrambles every synapse responsible for your functioning.

Palms reach to cup his jaw, angling him just the way you want him, and he allows it, he's desperate enough to let you do it. And when you wrench away, satiated yet longingly unsatisfied enough for more, his lips had continued to fully seek yours. But he catches himself, dragging himself back into dazed composure when he realizes you've pulled back, and you've caught him.

Those blue eyes and dark lashes are not wide. Uncertainty does not waver, not even there. John's swollen lips are almost enough to get you to lean in for more.

He doesn't bat an eye, drinking in that sharp intake of breath you take. That odd, mesmerizing warmth clouds your periphery with something familiar, sweet. Twinkles of sparkling motes of dust can't be blinked away, your hand reaching down to where that piercing sting of a venomous bite prods at your thigh.

John's hand is there, warm, large, emptying that last bit of syringe-filled Bliss into your veins.

_Why are you not surprised? He would have something like that on his person, something you should have done in the first place--stop and frisk, not stop and fuck._

And there he is again--so calm, so pliant and wonderful beneath you, even with your body slipping into slumping weight against his chest.

"Will you, Deputy, place your hand upon The Word of Joseph," he murmurs against the crown of your head, vision blurring. Those words again. The ones that got you both here in the first place. "And renounce your sins and admit your transgressions?"

He's so warm, your face digging into his neck as you slump further, and his palms reach to cradle you against him, flat against your back. If you squint hard enough you might just make out the words on his lips, promising you salvation in the face of submission.

But you already know your answer, this final chance to truly comprehend. He loves the word so much you're surprised that it isn't tattooed on him, either.

"Yes," you whisper.

And you're welcomed into the bliss.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Do you want to see it?" he poses, leaning forward in his chair. It creaks when he does, and in doing so, blocks the sunlight hitting your eyes. "What your sin is? Your true sin?"

" _…gone missing for three days, suspected to be taken under custody of the Seeds, who at this time have not confirmed or denied the whereabouts of said Hope County deputy_ …"

Something buzzes white noise, your bleary eyes cracking open against soft filtered light through curtains. It throws the room into a golden glow, body listless, until something almost itchy, _irritating_ pulses your nerves. Your fingers, twitching an index to feel it.

" _…many sources claim that the victim may not survive captivity long enough for retrieval, but still cling onto hope to see the resistance back on track…_ "

A firm grip keeps your twitching still, and your fatigued gaze lands on blue--blue eyes, and a crisp, freshly blue shirt.

John's gaze is tilted, head down but eyes up, and you glance at what has him fixated. Ah. So that explains the numbing burn; a concocting combination of both bed restraint and tattoo pen, arm stiff and pained at the elbow.

You try your other arm and find it above your head and cuffed against the wall, chained more as a political prisoner than tied to a chair as you were before.

" _…Deputy Hudson still reported missing, possibly KIA if held any longer. Searches may be called off in order to accommodate and move resources in order to find--_ "

He says no good morning or afternoon to indicate the time, even if his smile seems pleasant. John returns to his work, inscribing more of his art and claiming your body in the only way he seems to know how. You're not sure if he can even fuck--Hurk had told you that they followed a set of _rules_ , that _fornication_ was on the no-no list of "things _definitely_ not allowed to do" in order to be a good, upstanding, and practicing cultist.

Bliss or not, you can recognize the distinct feeling of a hard-on under you, and you're not in any real position to be posing that to him when you're literally held captive _again_.

So you watch him work, wincing when the numbness subsides once every so often. John works in silence, and you watch him in that silence, until the white noise ends and you're both left to your own voices.

He smiles, satisfied with his artwork then double-takes at you, like he's finally realized you're there.

"Do you want to see it?" he poses, leaning forward in his chair. It creaks when he does, and in doing so, blocks the sunlight hitting your eyes. "What your sin is? Your true sin?"

His favorite word, _yes_. Your voice is dry, parched. They haven't been caring for you well, as to be expected.

With deliberate patience he turns your hand over, pushing up the restraint to reveal the ink he's laid foundation there, burning into your skin now and forever.

_Luxuria._

One of the seven on his own hands, and as if you needed translation, he guides your fingers to form a fist. Ah. And that explains your rude awakening. _Lust_ transposed into letters on each flat of a knuckle, accusing you of the crime you deserve.

You hope he doesn't plan on filleting your skin--you like your hands, thank you very much.

Strangely enough, so does he, thumb brushing in what could mistakenly be reverence against your knuckles--letting the sting settle into your inflamed, agitated nerves like some cooling heat. You realize, then, that you haven't seen your bare hands in what feels like weeks. Not like now, studying them as carefully as you both are: knuckles and palms that should be scarred but aren't as much as he expects them to be. They've taken more of his people than you care to count.

His hands, to your surprise, are rough, but not in the services of bearing rifles or yardwork as a living. He's a lawyer, isn't he? Wet work wasn't his field of duty. But the man knows how to give a chase by air, a skilled piloting that couldn't be mastered by a day alone. A hobby. A good one.

And this man loves the chase--letting you run freely, roaming his little backyard just to see how far it would take your leash to yank you back by the neck. Back to square one, to him, suddenly aware of the slithering fingers curling around your neck.

A squeeze. Not like the first time he had laid eyes upon you during your _baptism_ , but one first of warning, as if to keep you still. Your breath stutters, wondering if these sins should be laid bare too-- _luxuria_ on the hand against your throat, those blue eyes unblinking as he applies pressure.

"You owe me a plane, Deputy," he murmurs. 

_How? It's not like you're making a stipend that rivals his. A replacement could be airdropped on his front step with just the snap of his fingers._

That cuff dangling against the wall jingles as you yank against it when he applies more pressure, feeling your pulse against his fingers. If only for a moment, immediately alleviating you with the softening of his hand, gasping out in greed as you meet his gaze.

Blown-out pupils, lips parted as he huffs in a quick pace--he's _eager_. And he _likes what he sees._

Something tells you that it's not always about him chasing you down--there are worse things to get turned on over. Like having your born sinner outplay you in a dogfight, manhandle you by the neck and allowing that tension to boil over in a long time coming. Maybe Adelaide _was_ right--maybe Sharky too.

_This guy's got a hard-on for you. Like, MEGA boner. So can you two just, uh, FUCK already and get it over with?_

One glance down and you feel more comfortable than usual out in the woods, and John takes that opportunity to stand from his seat, working on something behind him. It takes you a moment to register the silk, wondering how many of these he has, the buttons on an unusual side--

"You're a lot nicer when you've been blessed," he calls out in casual conversation, working with his hands, his back to you. "Couldn't stop telling me how nice my shirt was. How it matches my eyes. Might as well have ripped it off me, Dep. You liked it so much, I thought--"

He turns around, using his screwgie to point at you and the too-large shirt modestly covering your bare legs. He gives you one of those smiles, the kind that looks good for photos but couldn't be anymore sincere than he usually is. "Well. I thought you might appreciate wearing it."

Well, he had the decency to keep you clothed, dry, and sheltered. After another second you yank at the restraints to try and get comfortable against the mattress, muttering a _thanks_ , even if it may not have been as loud or welcoming as he may have wanted.

John splays out his arms--a pose you're sure he's obsessed with, his calling card or something of the like--as if to say _you're very welcome_ before turning back to his work.

" _\--cash reward will be given to anyone knowing the whereabouts of said deputy, who is currently still presumed to be under the custody of John Seed. Both were witnessed in a violent shootout last seen in Fall's End--_ "

A hand clamps down on the off switch of the radio beside him, a little too harshly from the sounds of it. John's _tsk tsk_ is menacingly provocative--he waves a disappointed finger over his shoulder at you, finishing up the last bit of his work.

"I didn't realize how popular you were out there," he begins, approaching you with his little gift in his hands. The chair beside you is dragged over by him, near your legs, and you're suddenly conscious of the lack of _pants_ you have on in front of him. 

He sets something down on the seat of it, something that you've only seen the few times you've spoken to fellow probation officers. 

"But you're mine now. Rook, was it?" he poses, more or less interested. "Or is it just a nickname? It doesn't matter. We'll give you a new one if we need to."

"Rook's fine," you murmur, face turning hot in embarrassment when he begins to stare a little too long at your naked skin. 

A leg shuffles, begins to cross one another when he does something that makes your heart race--his warm palm reaches down and grasps your ankle, stopping you from completing the movement.

"Rook. Like the chess piece? Or _rookie?_ Because I can think of ways to make good use of you, now that you're here with me. Together."

You stiffen under his touch, no adrenaline, no high, no Bliss to guide your movements this time. With patience, like some cat playing with his toy, his knee digs into the bed, and the sudden weight of him groans the mattress springs when your view is now filled with him between your bent knees.

Your throat tightens, breath quickening in pace when he spreads your legs apart, and--thank _fuck_ he had the decency to keep your underwear on. His shirt on you hikes up further towards your waist when he makes you bend your knees further to lift off the mattress, heartbeat racing, wondering if this is _really happening_ and he'll have full view of what he's really doing to you. 

Your eyes squeeze shut, sucking in a breath when you feel his worn palms steadying against your calf and thigh.

Something cinches around your ankle, cool and heavy, and for a moment you think he's gone through more drastic measures to keep you chained to the bed. The warmth of his hand flitters away, and you finally realize his eyes have been on your face this entire time--watchful. Observing. _Smug_.

A green light blinks on it when he lets your feet rest on the bed again. And… _is that what you think it is?_

The coolness of the room hits your cheeks like ice water.

"I can't let my _Rook_ run free." His hands come to rest on your bent knees, smiling at you between your legs, head tilted down but eyes still on you. "But I'll know if you do."

It's a chore to breathe until he finally slips off the bed, your brain scrambled and trying to make sense of what just happened, eyelids fluttering with a shaky exhale. John doesn't move far, the touch of his fingers shocking you again when he suddenly returns, studying your face as he hovers above you.

The cuff at your wrist wrestles undone, and he yanks away at the other restraint until you're finally--in some way--free.

Even then you don't seem to know what to do, and John notices this when he stops at the doorway, bible in hand and raising a brow in question. "Like the bed so much? A _thank you_ wouldn't hurt."

"Could you… could I get some _pants_ first?"

He pauses, glancing at your legs again, which causes you to squirm and hug them to your chest. And the little shit has the audacity to _smirk_ before turning back on his heel and heading out the door, whistling to himself _We'll Meet Again_.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bright side? 
> 
> Joseph told him to finally get you some nice, clean pants. 
> 
> Your only concern? 
> 
> How well they fit you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i see those comments babes!! i'll get to them as soon as i can--in the mean time, here's another one. ;) might increase the number of chapters planned? we'll see.

They made lunch for two, and the other side of the table isn't set for John.

The charismatic Seed brother seems oddly taciturn when he enters through the patio door, just in time to witness you stepping down the landing into the ranch-style kitchen of--what you suspect is--another breathtaking getaway hidden from prying eyes.

That gloomy look he carries like excess baggage at times seems to lift itself away, expression hard to read at first when you tighten the blanket around your shoulders at his questioning silence.

You don't like how quiet it is, shrugging awkwardly in your defense. "You didn't give me any pants."

With that, you stalk past him, bare feet padding against the cool tiles, each step reminding you of the odd weight left on your ankle. The light blares an angry green, reminding you that it won't be coming off anytime soon. Well--you're sure there are _plenty_ of other folks running around with one of these bad boys.

The air is crisp, bright on this side of the mountain, and the sun is generously warm. Still, pants or no, you keep the blanket secure and let it drag its excess behind you, aware of John's eyes boring bullets into the back of your cranium as you make your way across the backyard to the set table.

The guest you'll be dining with is not one you expect to meet again so soon.

He has the decency to wear a shirt this time, buttoned up to his neck but his back is facing you, staring off towards the snow-peaked mountains. His hand waves over to the open chair, plate filled with a generous helping of food that you haven't been treated to since a bad date gone wrong.

"Sit," Joseph softly orders. "Eat. There's something I've been meaning to speak with you of."

There's a long pause before you can will yourself to move, instinct kicking in--to check the tree lines, the rooftops, the windows, _anywhere that might have someone posted and ready to put you out to pasture in a moment's heartbeat_. They're not seriously leaving you alone with their _prophet_ , would they?

Joseph seems to notice this, his laugh quiet, as if sensing your apprehension. "It's just you and me and this earth. How God wanted it. How He willed it."

The wicker chair squeaks under your weight, and Joseph finally seems to turn his attention your way, blanket and all.

You shrug again, shooting him a blameless smile. "Wouldn't give me any pants."

The food is picked at more than scarfed down, which is a shame since the fresh fruit tarts look wonderfully plated and pretty against the stark white tablecloth. You're able to swallow some of it down, anyways, shooting a wary glance towards the patio and finding John nowhere in sight.

Joseph finally speaks up, bringing a cup of coffee up to sip. He's so… _domestic_ and _normal_ when he isn't preaching sans shirt and surrounded by his followers.

"I told him, you know," he begins. "His sin. His sin would be the death of him one day."

 _Considering you were a neck-snap away from killing him, sure._ "Yeah?"

His eyes shut behind those tacky sunglasses, for reasons you're still debating even now--not meant to hide his eyes, not meant to magnify them nor see the world in any other color than the one he knows. _Eighties want their sunglasses back, Mr. Prophet._

"I think you play a part in navigating him away from that death," Joseph continues, setting his mug down against the table, almost whimsy and thoughtful in his tone. Like he's seeing that clarity in all of your blanketed glory. "I believe you have something in you. Something that can save him, _will_ save him. He tells me you're willing to listen, to understand now. Then lay bare your sins, child."

_Where do you even start? This is so surreal--every step of the way Joseph had only ever welcomed you with open arms, had stopped John from nearly drowning you to death and shaming him away from those destined gates._

You think long, you think hard. Why do you need to atone? For _what_ do you need to atone for? For those angry, agitated tattoos against your knuckles, your wrist? The one still marked beneath your collarbone? Until you've committed them all, for John to explore a new part of your body to claim you once more?

Your thighs press together, squeezing the hand with your newly gifted tattoos. Confess. _Confess_.

"I shouldn't have cuffed you that day." You wonder if he can hear you under the soft whistling wind. "I shouldn't have. I should've walked away, left you be, left this _all_ be--"

Joseph shushes you, something calm and deliberate in his voice, raising a hand to stop you. "All is forgiven, as all will ever be."

Something strange tightens in your chest at that. You don't know whether or not you want that bullet through the skull yet. Maybe you'll heave your last breath face-down in that fruit tart.

"I was…" Accountability. It's all about accountability. "I wouldn't have. But it was my first day on the job, I'd been on the beat so long, I'm _used_ to following orders, to have the butt end of the work. Running coffee. Turning a blind eye. Expected to always side with the vet cop. Shit patrol hours and even worse beats."

All you can remember then was that panicked beating of your heart, the way Joseph had laid bare his arms for you to either make or break. Marshal Burke commanding you, _ordering_ you to slap the cuffs on him and get it over with. The trained, unblinking eyes of the Seed family behind the Father. Following superior orders was second nature, and in hindsight, nothing but a mistake.

Joseph hums, fingers laced together against his stomach. "Your faith. How confident are you in it?"

You bark out a short laugh. "It's been a… _very_ long time since I've believed in anything."

"And now?"

"Sometimes. Every now and again. I don't think my faith's been very _steady_ or consistent for… quite a while."

At that Joseph hums again, leaning back in his wicker chair further. "Then you're more like John than he realizes. And he's more like you than you know."

"I'm sorry?"

"You could have snatched the life of my brother away. All in the name of those you think are doing an absolute good. You spared him. You wished to understand instead, and for that I think you saw something within him."

_Yeah, you saw how ridiculously attractive his eyes looked when you were less than inches apart face-to-face this time._

Joseph's fingers steeple together, pressing against his chin in thought. "Are you virtuous, child?"

"Am I…?" You furrow a brow, the word itching at you in some odd way, before it finally hits you, and… hell's _bells_ you can't stop the stutter in your voice. "I… I mean, yeah?"

For some reason you feel like you have to _defend_ yourself against that revelation, suddenly embarrassed to have openly admitted that to him of all people. "Look, people do it all the time at the precinct… I wasn't into that, I'm-- _was_ really busy. The rookie that could make Hope County Jail look utterly… shameful. I just didn't have the time."

Joseph ponders that further. Your celibacy. Untouched, pure, untainted. In some ways more righteous than many others in the cult, and this is his _baby brother_ he's speaking of here. The one whose faith is shaken at times, uncertain, wavering. And yet there's you, unmindful to the sin, yet at fault for only performing what you thought was simply duty. In some ways, you remind Joseph of his older brother, too.

Joseph says nothing of your freedom, nothing of letting you go. He simply wipes his mouth with a cloth and stands, reaching his arms out for you to take. 

It takes a moment with your blanket and all, which you ultimately abandon if only not to keep him waiting, feeling utterly strange with his hands grasping hold of your own. It reminds you of the first time he had warned you, and you're still waiting for that bullet to your brain--but it's only Joseph's forehead leaning into yours, his eyes shut, and the proximity washes warmth down to your bones.

"You are welcomed into our family," he utters. "Only if you continue to seek your path. To see the truth for what it truly is. John will guide you… and you will guide him. You are the balance, the change of force in him. I've seen what you can do to him. I can see it again."

 

 

Your knee bumps into his for what must be the sixth time on this gravel path.

Neither of you apologize for it either, other than you politely scooting your knee away. You didn't have much faith in your chances _there_ , but spreading a little common courtesy might come a long way. The driver must be new because even John, his knee jerking into yours again, loudly complains about the brake checks.

Not like either of you had much to say to one another--for one, because you're blindfolded and handcuffed, hands uncomfortably pressed against the seat at your back. A part of you wants to smash a foot into John's shin if he could at least scoot his ass over an inch or ten and stop _spreading his legs_ (maybe you would actually get enough _room_ then), but merely keep your agitation to yourself. 

Bright side? 

Joseph told him to finally get you some nice, clean pants. 

Your only concern? 

How well they fit you.

Stills, pants on or off, your knee jerks in surprise not because of the driver's poor drifting skills, but because of John's hand planted there. Your head turns to what you assume is his direction, though make no move to shake him off of you.

He sounds bemused, more relaxed than you'd last remembered him before speaking to Joseph. "Calm down. You're tense and it's making _me_ tense."

"Yeah?" you pose. "You try being blindfolded and cuffed and driven somewhere you don't know. Bet you'd like that, huh?"

His hand withdraws but doesn't stray far--you can feel it hanging around the headrest behind you, sprawled like the languid, seat-hogging ass he is.

"You talk too much when you're upset," he comments, voice directed your way--intentional so you can hear him.

Well, you won't deny that. "Yeah? You too."

"At least we can agree on something. Even if it isn't _much_."

"Oh? Are we friends already?"

The pickup truck jerks forward so hard on the brakes that you literally _fly_ forward between the center compartment.

And John is fucking _laughing_.

You wriggle, knees bruised against the hard plastic bits between the seats, out of breath and completely done with this man at your expense. You sense he deliberately keeps you squashed there just to see you struggle for a few lengthier moments before grasping the back of your shirt and helping you a little more rough than necessary out of the car, courteous enough to help you stand upright.

The air is a little mustier here, dry compared to the ranch, and you're a little concerned that they've come to _actually_ put you out to pasture until John tears the blindfold free from your eyes.

A little painful adjustment to the sunlight and you gather your bearings soon; it's a runway. An airfield.

A large palm takes hold of your upper arm, dragging you with him without so much as a warning, and you follow as best you can without complaint besides your expression. John's coat sweeps in the breeze--dramatic as ever--until you both reach the hangar bay.

"John?" you can't help but ask, his eyes searching for a particular plane in the room. "What are you--?"

"Did you not digest a single word of the Father?" he snaps at you, his aggression easing at your--surprisingly--concerned expression. His anger is still present, patience thin as usual, but you're not sure if it's because of you or something else. 

He takes in a deep breath before trying again, hands on his hips. "You're one of us now, aren't you? It's what the Father told me." 

_For fuck's sake, he's your **brother** , not your father._

"And since you delivered a payload of .50 MG into my best co-pilot," he explains, turning you around with a little more force than needed. You hear a click, his hands fumbling to undo your cuffs free. "I need a replacement."

So bonding time with John wasn't _really_ bonding unless you were killing people. 

His patience wanes again, snapping at you with a flamboyant clench of his fists at his sides. "Oh, for fuck's sake, just get in! Nobody's _dying!_ "

 _Yet_ , you want to say, but think better of it.

In less than a minute he has a headset on you and hatches secured, checking the propellers and wings before committing to any takeoff. It's a little dangerous that no one's around for air traffic control, but you'll have to trust John's judgement, especially since there's no going back when he starts down the runway.

The first few minutes of flight are apprehensive, awkward for some reason against the humming buzz of the plane. Like neither of you can ever find the proper way to get along, get in touch with one another. Joseph said you were John's balance, a tipping force that had something to do with the direction John's life would take him. And yet he says nothing into the mic, pouring into the hobby that he knows and loves if he isn't torturing folks in his secret sex dungeon-slash-bunker. 

You remember what he said during the car ride--that if you were tense, he could feel it, too. You hope that your tension isn't influencing his piloting, at least in any terrible way, but it's then does the epiphany dawn on you, widen your eyes just a fraction more to the truth you seem to be forever blind to. 

He's blowing off steam. He's trying to relax doing the one other thing he truly loves.

And he's doing it with you. The Rider on the White Horse, the enemy that should still be.

You glance into the mirror up in the cockpit ahead of you, angled in a way that your eyes meet for a moment. He says nothing, concentrated, lost in his own thought process and dreams, but waits for you to speak nonetheless.

You smile a little, resting your head back against the seat before looking away, peering at the landscape gliding beneath your wings.

You can't believe you're asking this, but you might as well now that you really have the chance.

"Flyby on the 'YES' sign?"

And you _swear_ you could literally feel the approval gush out of him in prideful waves.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Someone's yelling, yelling at _you_ to get the hell up and into the car. You'd love to--honestly, you would have, but there's only one problem: another bullet eats into the flesh under your shoulder and _yeah. I don't think I can tank another bullet for this guy._
> 
> And John? John's crazy. And fucking dumb.

As expected, the Seed's version of the bible is the direct antithesis of light reading.

It's not so much different from other testaments you're familiar with, certainly, but it's not really the ideal literature to be reading in his living room. While it's much of an improvement than being chained to a bedpost, you're still uncertain of the boundaries and limitations; John will know every step you take. You won't push your luck that far, even if he does seem a little less _sadistic_ than usual.

Though escape is a thought, you feel he's been agreeable so far, which is strange considering how often he's poured his aggression into you in the past weeks prior. But now, being under house arrest and swept under the metaphorical rug from the search parties that might possibly be out looking for you, John's hell-bent on keeping what's his.

No; escaping was the last thing on your mind. In the long run it would be simpler, easier if you didn't. For you. For Hudson. Pratt. Burke. Whitehorse. Everyone else in this damned town.

But especially for him.

There are strange things you pick up with John constantly around you now, and though you know his capabilities, it's… _eccentric_. Eccentric to flip through his record albums when he isn't looking, to see the food stocked in the fridge, the college degrees, the family vacations and pictures framed around the house. Eccentric to notice that the Seed siblings are always pictured, but not their parents.

A question that needs an answer, but one you know better than to ask.

You've dealt with juvies who had nobody to call a true guardian. Juvies who grew up with one but without the basic emotional needs to form that familial bond, that nurturing necessity neglected in the forms of aggression. Violence. Runaways and throwaways who could've been sitting in a school desk instead of across from yours at the police station, filing your formal report of the charges. 

In the end, you'd realized, it'd always come back to home life, to that love and care that was so necessary, so essential, yet ultimately robbed from them and their childhood.

You know it's not your place to _assume_ \--the man had every intention to torture and flay you alive, but even you can't stoop down to that abysmal escape. Something was wrong. Something had _gone_ wrong at some point and he isn't precisely to blame for this aggression, this violent temper that flares at every impatient turn.

_Did it start with his father first then his mother? Does he know that he can be more than just this walking advertisement, this metaphorical hammer for which every solution he seeks is just a nail?_

You glance up from your book when he enters the room, coat under an arm and his aviators fixed atop his head. The man has plenty of bibles lying around the house--you suspect he's offloaded more than usual since your arrival here--yet he seems particularly interested in yours.

"You okay?" you ask him, still opened to a page when he crosses over to the couch you're on. "Something wrong?"

Normal questions--perhaps not normal considering your friends would be arguing that you've been _kidnapped_ and being held _prisoner against your will_ , but you beg to differ. John's train of thought must have been a similar process, expression a little caught off guard by the tone of your genuine concern.

"Nothing yet," he answers after a pause, hand reaching to shut your book. You allow it, letting the white leather slip from your fingertips as he now has your full and complete attention. "I'll be heading out for some time."

He doesn't specify where--probably his bunker, his baptizing duties, somewhere a confession can and will be made. It's not your business, but you know if something goes wrong it will be if he returns. Still, you don't rightly understand why he feels obligated to tell you this all of a sudden--he's left plenty of other times before, and all without your _approval_ or knowledge.

But you nod anyways, leaning your side against the armrest. "Alright," you acknowledge with a sigh. "I'll probably miss you then. A lot."

You mean it in a jovial jest, of course, but your sense of humor is definitely not as form-fitting as his. You expect him to scoff, to leave it at that, but instead he crouches himself down to your level, face steady and eerily calm. Like he has some plan, your words not entirely _jesting_ anymore.

You blink at him, confused, as he studies you for a moment, before offering, "You should come with then. I think I'd enjoy a witness."

 _That… sounds about as ominous as you generally expect of him._ "…You sure?"

"Of course," he agrees, a little too buoyantly. "If you wanted to leave I'm sure you would've discovered some miraculous way to escape me by now. I don't know what you're planning, Rook, but I'm curious to see it."

 _Plan?_ Yeah, sure, as if you've been secretly the grand architect in this long-term scheme of digging out of the property with a _spoon_ through the crawl space. You shoot him a jaded look to which he smiles in return, rising to stand.

"Make yourself look presentable then. I can't have myself embarrassed standing beside you like this."

You scowl.

 _Ass_.

 

 

Bearing witness to John orating his sermons to a seated crowd cramped in their pews was--for some reason--not what you were expecting.

Well--more like he was talking _at_ them, spewing and raving about as beguilingly as you know him to be. What makes this a little less bearable is not the fact that the group of initiates appear haggardly familiar in some way, but the fact that you're left standing. 

Clutching onto a copy of John's bible to your chest.

Standing up there near the podium, beside him yet _behind_ him.

In front of everyone.

And you know _exactly_ what this is supposed to look like, as if the Baptist needs anymore reason to stroke at his already engorged ego. He might as well make a martyr of you now, to nail you to the cross and make it final. Knowing his hard-on for drama, he might as well hold you up to the crowd under the arms for everyone to behold: _Look at what I've done to your deputy. Look at your **real** deputy now._

Realistic possibilities aside, you're much aware of your status in this house of worship--once the devil's sympathy, now some darkened beacon walking in the angel's shadow. John pauses in his speech, and all is quiet; his hand reaches out, but his head doesn't turn, waggling his fingers impatiently your way.

You step forward and hand him the bible, to which he accepts with flourish, reaching the psalms to preach.

And though his voice is so loud, inching into every crevice of the room's acoustics, there's something peculiar in this air. Something that twists at your gut in an uncomfortable way, how the light shines against John's back but not his face; how it illuminates instead those in the crowd, gaunt and beaten and bereft of their sins prepared to atone. Something that your instincts tells you is not right, _lust_ on your fingers clutching tightly onto your other reined at your front.

Someone in the third pew nearest the aisle twitches. Another person coughs aloud, though keeps it at that. A sneeze in the far back closest to the barred doors. John's words continue, your eyes perusing, scanning, wondering if this gut instinct isn't simply stage fright.

And even if every nerve in your body is standing on that teetering edge, nothing prepares you for that first crack of gunfire through the white barn doors.

One shot becomes many, succinct and in quick succession--someone's screaming, then _everyone's_ screaming. You don't think, you don't have _time_ to think--your hand reaches for John first, then your body, shoving him downwards into the podium as the single-shot fire soon becomes a storm.

One reaches beside the podium, and the wood shatters but stands its ground, and it's so _fucking_ loud--the people, the echoes, the way you're trying to hear yourself think when you scramble for John to _get the fuck up and go_. He doesn't argue, blue eyes widened, shell-shocked, and clutching onto your arms in a death grip you're too numbed to feel, kneeling into him.

_Set up. We were fucking set up._

And someone, you swear, is screaming, _Get the deputy outta here!_

You think it's one of yours--you laugh, you fucking _laugh_ , you can't believe you're calling these cultists _one of yours_ \--until you realize that it isn't. Until it dawns on you, through the cut-down bodies being riddled mag after mag and wetting the pews with dripping red that it's not you they're worried for.

_Someone planned this. Someone planned on breaking you out, planned on killing two birds with one stone, icing John while they're at it--_

You turn to John, who seems to wait on your command, and realize that this isn't his forte. The sky is his limit, but he's only one man.

You turn to the nearest guy sworn under John, ordering him, "I need a gun."

A command that's met with shock. "What? No! You're not supposed to--"

A bullet tears through his chest, and he slumps down against the upturned table he's used for improvised cover.

Prayers be met, you'll mourn for him later--that handgun is in your palm in a flash and you drag John behind you and towards the nearest exit, free aiming and firing at anyone who even begins to approach either of you funny. That strange feeling is still present--that hazy, focused-like trance you're trapped in with life or death. You realize, then, that the doors are barely holding together, staying your breath when the gunpowder clouding the air is too potent to manageably breathe.

_They're running! They're fucking running, get 'em!_

It's too loud, it's too bright, it's too foggy all at once--but you'll be damned if someone touches a hair on his head. If he dies, is your A to B reasoning, then you'll die, too. At the hands of someone different, by Joseph's vision more than anything else.

The night air is humid, thick--you don't realize the iron-like smell of blood dissipating, the bullets still flying in the church when you're guiding John to the nearest escape, his hand in yours.

You don't fathom how tightly you're gripping at it until you feel that first wave of heat entering your skin.

The bullet skims but buries itself into the hilly earth in front of you, nearly staggering John into your back.

_Close call._

It's enough to get you both running towards the pickup parked on the side of the prairie path, but lining up a shot takes far less.

You're seconds away from the driver's seat when it happens and-- _that's a bullet. That's a bullet ripping through your skin, yep._

You stagger forward, crying out, and John's blue eyes are something you've never seen before--this strange mixture of fear, adrenaline, but you will yourself to stand upright, motioning at him angrily to get into the car. And-- _crack_.

Another one, followed by a quick second, like the shooter behind it is getting impatient with seeing you live for so long. Maybe through your torso? It's hard to figure out where with you fumbling into the gravel now like some college drunk.

Someone's yelling, yelling at _you_ to get the hell up and into the car. You'd love to--honestly, you would have, but there's only one problem: another bullet eats into the flesh under your shoulder and _yeah. I don't think I can tank another bullet for this guy._

And John? John's crazy. And fucking dumb.

Dumb enough to the point where you can feel rough hands grappling your boneless body, dragging your boots through the blood-soaked gravel with insurmountable difficulty. In your haze you can barely find your voice, eyes rolling, mumbling heroic praise to him when one generally finds themselves in life or death: _save yourself. Go. Leave me here. I'll buy you some time._

Maybe--you succumb to a fascinating revelation--this is your atonement?

Dying for the man who has tortured and terrorized non-believers, who forces those to confess to petty sins in order to atone and be born anew. Dying by the hands of the resistance you'd been dealt and depended upon, viewed as a traitor for protecting the same man you had the chance to kill if it hadn't been for your own sins. Dying because doing this will lead to the same deaths of your fellow deputies, to the tragic, burnt out career of Sheriff Whitehorse.

And John? John's still crazy.

Everything happens in time-lapse, from whenever you can manage your eyes open to when they slump shut. Like how misty your gaze is, fixated on his blue eyes when he attempts to properly position you into the passenger seat. A moment where wet, warm hands slap roughly at your cheek to keep you awake when you slump forward again, but sleep sounds so good.

Another time-lapse where he's dragging the seatbelt over you, securing it in place and shoving your body back a little too roughly when you slump forward as much as the belt will allow.

A faint one of the darkened path illuminated by headlights against the roaring engine, your body shivering despite the shut windows.

"I'm cold," you quietly mumble.

John double-takes over at you from the driver's seat, the side of your head pressed against the cool glass, eyes drooping shut again.

The afterthought is forgotten the further you drive down this road. Like his hand reaching for the center console to switch on the heater despite the clammy Montana night. How he looks over at you constantly in unmistakable distress that you'll probably die and ruin the upholstery of the pickup he paid for. The occasional moments when he calls out for you to stay awake.

You don't know--it's a tall order, and you're tired of taking them.

So you sleep; still cold, still ruining his upholstery, and no longer awake.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And Jacob's logic has holes and flaws, no doubt, but his proclamation of your supposed martyrdom?
> 
> Well. Looks like Jesus isn't the only one to be resurrected anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me, 20 mins before class after staying up all night writing this: bitch post this shit!!!!!
> 
> edit: also i think my dumbass used html in some of the comments and it probably removed the rest of the responses I'M SO SORRY JFIODSAFJD

Against all odds, against all deaths you should have deserved--you made it.

How? Given everything you've done, everything that should have statistically been otherwise impossible, the defying of all odds with the biggest middle finger to ever be conceived?

_And you don't have an inkling of a clue to that answer._

Frankly you expected John to reach over to your door and shove your corpse into a deep ravine, all while on his way to the car wash to vacuum the sticky mess of blood you'd left in his pickup. Not like you would know his thought process after you'd so eloquently fallen into a deep, terrible slumber. How uncomfortable those bullets nestled into your flesh stirred--how much more difficult it was to weed them out piece by piece.

All you remember is the waking, the seeing of a peculiar sight--a woman who might as well have been torn from the passages of the testament itself, her white lace dress brushing your fingertips against the strangely comfortable bed.

Something aches, surely, but your math couldn't be wrong. The odds were definitely stacked compared to how many rounds you'd taken, eyes blinking slowly as she skirts around to sit closer to you, your face, expression gentle and kind.

"I'm dead, right?" Goodness, you _croaked_ that one out. How long has it been? "Are you…?"

She giggles, grins, probably would have twirled if not for your hand clasped between hers. "I'm Faith. And you're not, we've seen to that. Not after what you've done for John."

As if on dramatic cue to make himself known something crashes down a floor below--a furious howl that might as well quake the floorboards and tectonic plates while he's at it. Whatever he's shoved this time is _huge_ \--everything that isn't nailed down in the room with you rattles when the crash hits the floorboards. Other things go flying--against the walls, against the windows, anything that can and will be crushed within his sight, and the telltale sound of smashed glass is iconic.

As if that wasn't enough, you hear those livid footsteps stomp and slam through the front doors until it's eerily silent once again.

Faith sighs, thumb rubbing soothingly against your fingers. "And there he goes. I was just about to let him know he could stop his worrying."

You frown, feeling suspiciously under the influence of something besides the medication you're assuming is flowing in your veins. Leave it to John to throw his daily scheduled four o' clock fit--and to rouse you unceremoniously from your slumber _again_. 

You grimace, wondering what could have him so soured now. "And what's he so worried about?"

That question seems to catch her off guard--not because of its nature, but because you're oblivious to it. 

She blinks, leaning in closer. "About _you_ , silly."

If your brain had a fuse it would be _toasted_ , so rewind--he _**what?**_

Faith laughs something joyous, full of life and perfect teeth. "All this time he's been worrying himself that you would never wake up. Hoping his prayers would be answered, hoping that God would come and save you. And He did."

John would never admit it but for a man who has an abundance of religious texts, who is so deeply invested in inviting the removal of one's sin, he does little to no praying at all. What he preaches he doesn't practice--and Joseph's words come dancing around your eardrums, like some whispering memory returning as a soft reminder.

_Then you're more like John than he realizes. And he's more like you than you know._

He's praying. He's _praying_ , and not for himself but for _you_. And you don't know whether he blames himself for bringing you along with him that day, but you have your sights on his prayers being more along the lines of his enemies perishing painful deaths. It sounds more like him--you _hope_ that's what he's been thinking of, because the John you know hadn't been so compassionate in your every violent endeavor thus far.

Someone steps past the door frame--an exhausted, if not weathered looking man whose spectacles magnify his eyes for either _you_ to see them or for himself to see the world better. His fading hair recedes but his haggard demeanor suggests that he'd been present--or at least the cause--of John's childish fit not even a minute ago.

Those magnified eyes seem to grow even wider upon wobbling through the door. 

"You're awake!" he cries out, as if your recovery truly is some miracle. _Don't tell me they brought the vet for the checkups. **Why** is it always the vets who end up doing the checkups._ "My God, I was starting to believe you wouldn't…"

You struggle to sit up in bed, and the reminder that you'd been riddled with _holes_ earlier comes back full force. Faith is at your side, shushing you softly, her face just as pained as you suck in a hard breath when your blankets slip gracelessly to your lap. Bruises and bandages and everything in between, and really--you look like _hell_.

Between gritted teeth you puff out, "That what you told John?"

He bumbles, fingers nervously twiddling one another. "Well, I was--I was _getting_ to it, but Mister Seed has little patience. I _told_ him that the injuries were serious--he expected miracles out of me. Miracles!"

_Yep, sounds like him._

"Ah, but you're awake now," he rambles rather lightheartedly, like some flippant scientist to which you are his little _miracle_. "I suppose I should give Mister Seed a call to return now--nothing to worry about, nothing to worry about at all. And--ah! The _other_ Mister Seed!"

Faith turns to look over her shoulder, providing you ample view of the doorway, and the so-called _other_ Seed is not Joseph, but another. The one you've only seen through family portraits and that initial introduction; the only sibling with auburn hair swept to its side as his presence is literally filling every inch of the room. And he's _tall_ ; much taller than John, than Joseph, too, his eyes first landing on the buoyant doctor, then you.

His hand pats the doctor's shoulder, an action that simultaneously congratulates him and steers him towards the door to politely suggest his exit. And his voice is slow, gravelly, but commanding, his rolled-up sleeves in that uniform simply another tool for his presentation.

"I've got it from here," Jacob, you recall his name to be, states. "You've got a region to run. And he'll be back."

Faith's fingers slip from yours almost reluctantly, shooting you a kind look before standing from the bed. She seems to want to say something more to you but thinks better of it, offering you one last little wave of her dainty fingers before brushing past her brother.

From the silence, you don't expect he'll want to hold hands with you, too.

Instead a corner of his lips upturn, approaching you with a deliberate step. "Huh. Four rounds to the chest and sutures barely holdin' your skull together. And yet… you're still here."

Yes, you're a little aware of everyone's infatuation with the fact that you're somehow still alive after that ordeal. But even Jacob's presence is odd to you, not because you hardly know each other, but because you're aware that he has other duties to serve under Joseph. Someplace more important, less menial than _this_.

"Think it has something to do with your brother's _praying?_ " you pitch. 

Crazier things have happened for those whose hands and knees they've begged and pleaded at the feet of the Lord. You readjust against the pillow and headboard, discovering something about the duvets, its scent, finding comfort in that despite your aches.

And Jacob seats himself at your side, still managing to somehow tower over you even like that. 

"Praying?" he repeats, like the word is strangely alien to him. "You call that _crusade_ my baby brother is raging out there _praying?_ "

_Crusade?_

"Oh, yes," Jacob confirms, leaning back against his seat and resting an ankle against his knee. "And while he's out there rooting out the weak, he asked me to stay here. To watch over you. But I doubt if anyone couldn't have killed you then, they can't even kill you now."

It's odd that you feel safe with him in the room with you despite his harsh edges, his scarred skin. A part of you is convinced it's because he's related to John, but another is focused on that Airborne patch on his sleeve, the memory of a similar one in Dutch's bunker.

But his words remind you not to ever feel too safe, too comfortable, especially not around him. Because he's still a hardened military man, still thinks differently than your domestic policing could ever truly hold a candle to.

"Don't be mistaken. I look after my own. And if the Father wants your salvation, so be it. But right now, your survival?" 

The light shines in through the windows in such a way that it casts his rough visage in a surreal glow. Something warm and angelic despite the roughness he carries himself with, as he says, "Your survival is the marking of someone who should've been martyred." 

You're no martyr. Joan of Arc was a martyr. Saint Peter was a martyr. _Saint John the Baptist was a martyr._

But _you_ , the righteous sinner?

Jacob, you're aware, can sense your apprehension, but even his thoughts feel like your own.

"But instead it's led to even more flocking into our fold, our salvation. _Local resistance kills young Hope County deputy in fatal church massacre._ " Jacob licks his lips, chuckling. "You like that headline? You think the people feel protected knowing their people are cop killers who'll turn on their own the moment they face the other way?" 

He's like the opposite of John--you answer _no_ instead, frowning at the thought. 

The resistance, for reasons you can hardly blame them for, _had_ tried to kill you--and you being here barely clinging to life is answer enough. You'd turned your back on them. You were the one to pick up the gun, to start firing rounds into the same people you'd once been standing beside at a summer's evening barbeque. They'd sacrificed themselves believing you would be able to save them, to put a bullet through John Seed like you were destined to. 

You were a cop who took an oath, a cop who was supposed to protect civilians--not _kill_ them.

And Jacob's logic has holes and flaws, no doubt, but his proclamation of your supposed martyrdom?

Well. Looks like Jesus isn't the only one to be resurrected anymore.

 

 

It doesn't take long for John to return.

The roaring of his pickup could be heard well before he'd pulled up to the house, and even all that theatrical arrangement isn't enough to entirely prepare you for his entrance; grand, dramatic, and looking like he broke every traffic law you would gladly write him a citation for.

His shirt is a little untucked from his jeans, his face a little paler than usual, but it's those same blue eyes you can never seem to tire of--bright, compelling, and full of disbelief.

You wave at him from the kitchen table, bowl of cornflakes settled in front of your now showered and clean self.

"Out," he snaps at Jacob, his big brother seated beside you and reading today's newspaper.

The eldest Seed raises a brow at his baby brother's tone--you can tell John is trying to keep himself in check, to not show anything that would otherwise be read as some form of softness. He looks furious now, fists at his sides, waiting for his brother to leave you two be.

Jacob moves to stand, quite slowly might you add, as he stretches and draws out his deliberate yawn with his arms over his head. The custom-painted rifle he's got propped and leaning against the kitchen table returns to his paws, and with a casual salute your way he goes to approach the front door with every intent to resume his paused duties. Even past the doorway, he's humming _Only You_.

John's eyes are on him like a bird of prey, never looking away until the door clicks shut.

And he rounds on you in an instant, eyes blazing.

"What are you doing up?" Ah. It's time for _Twenty Questions_ and no chance for you to answer any of them, his legs pacing the kitchen tirelessly. "And why are you down here? I saw you, I _felt_ what happened to you, I--"

The state of chaos that is the kitchen is still in disarray. You figured out he'd shoved over his bookcase and china cabinet in the _same day_ because the doctor had told him you still hadn't woken yet, and there was a possibility that, well… _you might never_. Yeah. Maybe you would've been angry enough to shove over a shelf and a china cabinet, too.

"I'm _fine_ ," you stress and try to reason with him, but you're no match. He's positively _livid_ , foaming at the mouth if he could, his fist connecting with the table.

You jump at that, at how close he is to you where you're seated. You're wearing one of his shirts you'd taken the liberty to rob from his closet, but you don't know if he's taken notice.

But there's something _you_ notice about him. How his charisma and energy and smug demeanor that you know him for suddenly drains. His head leaning downwards, like he's exhausted and bled dry. His palms flat against the kitchen table, tattoos stark and clear for you to see, as if he himself is baring his sins to you. And the sins themselves, those reminders against his hand are listed, reminding you of your own.

Your own tattooed fingers skim the tabletop, and with foreign gentleness you lay it atop his--your _lust_ against his _ira_ , his _tristitia_ , then finally your palm against all seven.

It's the first time since the beginning of this encounter you've touched him, and this takes notice. His eyes slow to rise, head turning up first then his gaze landing on your gentle hand. How your other comes to touch those stars on his right. The no longer agitated letters on your fingers, black ink deep and now a part of you. They cover his sins save for yours, and your thumb rubs soothing lines against him, something you feel he hasn't experienced in a very long, long time.

"John," you whisper after another moment of silence. "I'm okay. _We're_ okay."

He's silent.

"Don't do that again," he replies, voice faded.

Your gut drops.

Thumb ceasing and cheeks hot with mortification that you've made a mistake, you move your fingers, ready to withdraw.

And to your shock his hand snatches forward for yours when you go to pull away, his grip firm, almost frenzied at the mere prospect of your touch leaving him, and it indirectly pulls you closer to each other. 

Instinct tells you tremble--that this man isn't standing altogether, that he'd just went out not even moments ago to purge those in the resistance in retaliation for what had been done to you and him. But you can't. You don't. It's _he_ who trembles, his hands gripping your wrists a little too tightly for comfort.

"Don't do that again, not even for me," he explains, voice hard, terse, but quaking beneath it all. It's then do you recall the church, the gunfire, the escape.

_Every bishop needs its rook, right?_

He's vulnerable, is your wide-eyed epiphany. He's been dealt a blow and he's still trying to recover from it. Regardless of the prayers, the crusades, the retribution, he'd gone far and wide to make the sacrifice worthwhile.

Gently, you move your hands so you're gripping his forearms, his wrists, making sure contact is constantly made, and finally he meets your gaze.

You see a man that had been a boy once, lively and joyous and perhaps almost like Faith in his childhood, but no longer. There are still traces of him there, faded and untouchable as he's withdrawn himself in turn of harder solutions--anger, fury, pain in order to make his subjects understand. And you'd almost died for him, put yourself in front of his body despite your sins.

Something moves in his gaze, like a compulsion when he glances at your mouth, and your lips part. You're reminded of the sin he accuses of you, buried deep in your loins as your thumbs roll gentle circles into his wrists. Lust. He accuses you of lust, yet it's he who stares wantonly upon your face, swallowing.

It's you who guides him carefully to lean down, you who guides him to your lips, your fingers gripping his vest.

And it's unexpectedly soft, warm--different from your adrenaline-fueled rage. Every touch is slower, deliberate as if not to snap him out of this trance; your hands trace gently up his vest then towards the exposed, scarred sin against his unbuttoned shirt, where the bunker key still dangles. Against his neck, reaching the trimmed and orderly kept beard that he's so infatuated with upholding his appearance. Your hands cup his jaw, his lips moving in vigor, earnest, nose bumping against yours, and you almost laugh aloud at his eagerness.

It's his hands this time, tattooed and large against you, cradling your face that does it. How easily he overpowers you, your head leaning back as his kisses become greatly enamored, desperate and open-mouthed. Like breathing, surviving in this world is only possible through you. 

You want him, you _do_ , but your lungs are starved for air--you pull back but not far, but he still needs you, still needs that contact, that validation of your skin against his.

John's lips trail and press against the corner of your lips, your cheek, touch-starved and craving this long-forgotten affection that he so needs. And you praise him--you praise him aloud yet softly, his kisses close together, nose dragging against the curve of your cheekbone, palms against your jawline.

It's the warmth of him at your neck that gets your thighs squeezing together, fisting your hands into the arms of his shirt when you feel his teeth nipping, lips and warm breath and all there. 

You're filled with his passions, his presence, his touch, but you know you both still want more--for him to _fill_ you to the brim, to take you and share every scar with nothing in between. He wants to know what it'll be like, this salvation only possible through the joining of you and him, and the front of his jeans ache terribly at the imagination--of his tattooed fingers running against your imperfect flesh, his fingers pressing knuckle-deep _inside_ of you, thumb against your clit, your breasts heaving against his every plunge. And you, with your hands clawing at his arms again, pleading and begging to him _yes, yes_ this is all you could want, all you needed to come.

It's his hands that make the revelation though, reaching for the buttons of the shirt on you--familiar to him now, but not when he touches the gauze wrapped and covering your body.

And he finally pulls away, finally snaps awake out of reluctance more than anything, blue eyes hazy and clouded.

He finds yours very much the same way, your lips swollen, cheeks hot, but he knows--it'll hurt. It will in more than just those wounds, between your thighs, fucking you raw because he doesn't think by now he has any self-restraint or control. John wants to see you cry, he wants to see you beg, but not in helplessness, not in rage. He wants to see the way you plead for him with his inked hands pressing your face into the mattress as he pounds into you from behind, the _lust_ on your fingers gripping against the fabric of the bed sheets as you gasp for air. Wants to see the way you stretch and take him, all of him down until he can barely fit anymore and you're sobbing at him so.

A part of him, deeper and sound, wouldn't mind seeing you on top of him either--in control, pushing his every whim, like your hand clutching at the cord around his neck, riding him for all he's worth.

But those amorous thoughts are shredded and tuned away from auto-pilot, fingers pried away from the steering wheel to give him some semblance of control back. 

His fingers do the same to yours, more gently than he's used to, dragging them away from his shirt as he straightens out his vest and collar. You understand--you always do. Amiably his fingers reach for those aching lips of yours, his pupils blown-out and dark when you lean to kiss his thumb, his palm without needing to be asked.

You stay like that, his sin-inked hand clasped between yours akin to prayer in the middle of the silent kitchen, the shelf and china cabinet and sunlit shimmering glass still on the floor. From deputy to lawyer, from sinner to saint; from rook to bishop, from disciple to Baptist, you are both only flesh and bone to one another here.

And you both seem content with those terms.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And, truly, it is everything Vera promises: you do meet again. You do smile, genuine, soft, relieved as you see home in those blue eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> first and foremost--thank you, so, _so_ much for your patience. i am completely **floored** and overwhelmed by how much attention this fic has been received by you guys and honest to god, it took a _lot_ of restraint between research papers and presentations and overall university **hell** to not just sit down and write the rest of this fic. you guys are the fucking bomb.
> 
> i just wanna take time to also really shine some light on my good friend ellariasand/gabby, because real talk? **this fic is just as much hers as it is mine.** she sat down with me and we brainstormed and connected the dots and just cultivated this fucking _mindblowing_ relationship and dynamic between two people that should be complete opposites of the spectrum. but it works. and it's beautiful. send some love her way for sure! without her, i doubt this fic would've reached where its come now. you're the best, babe!!  <333
> 
> onto other matters at hand, though. i understand there are some interests about future content that i've received both here and via tumblr, and i'll address them all below.
> 
>  **about john and marriage.** honestly? for all intents and purposes in this story, probably not gonna happen. i'm not against the idea--but i think for the purpose of this fic and the relationship i'm trying to portray between these two, i feel marriage is probably superficial and more of a legality to john than it is a statement. i want their relationship to be seen as functioning and deep without the need of marriage; a good relationship isn't defined by the ring you put on, but how much you both work together regardless of the circumstances.
> 
>  **about holly.** the issue with this is that i do not have access to the novel and have to rely on other sources to provide it for me. this means i'm not getting the full extent of her relationship with john, and therefore her character without general bias. what i will address is that many of us are aware of the casual sex and FWB nature of the relationship, and to me i think that's pretty cut and dry: it's a casual sex relationship. that means no strings attached, no hurt feelings, and both parties can drop each other without rhyme or reason. holly also functions as a member within the cult; rook is an outsider, which, for this fic at least, serves a purpose for the dynamic between rook and john. verdict? holly ~~weed~~ more than likely won't make an appearance.
> 
>  **future updates?** this fic is planned to be! my finals are rolling in and i'll be taking summer classes in the next month. i know many of you understand--i really can't thank you enough--but really, patience is all i ask. i say this for all of my fellow authors out there who find it difficult to update any of their fics but have to drop them completely.
> 
> that about wraps it up. again, thanks to those of you for patiently waiting. i generally don't clog up the author's notes--especially one so long and winding. to make up for the wait i've essentially doubled/tripled the usual word count on this one. have at it! ;)

"Twelve down: ten letters. _X, Y, Z_. What the hell is _X, Y, Z?_ "

The tattered newspaper is old and faded in Jacob's scarred hands, crumpled at its edges but still bearing more use than to simply mop up a spill. In his other hand he presses the edge of the diminished eraser against his bottom lip in deep thought, rocking back against his seat until the front legs of the chair squeak off from the floorboards.

You lift your eyes up from across the table after another moment, the map of the Whitetail Mountains beneath your fingertips. " _Dimensions_ ," you state. "Try _dimensions_."

The eldest Seed makes a long, drawn out _ahhh_ to the discovery, etching the word down quickly into the gray empty boxes of the paper. It fits perfectly, aligning with the earlier words he'd filled across, worn-out pencil scratching out the completed question. It goes like this, and has been like this, for the past hour or so; Jacob nearly tipping over on his too-small chair for his too-large frame, hunched over his decades-old tabloid with a pencil that you probably fished out from a crayon box in the third grade. 

And then you, leaning over the marked map he has of tagged areas of interest across the mountainside of potential locations of this supposed Whitetail militia, a group he had indulged you had become quite a prickling thorn in his side. Of a man named Eli Palmer, elusive down to its shadow and throwing every wrench from his dwindling toolbox into Jacob's plans at each convenience possible.

His records play, skip every once and again, but neither of you take much notice.

"Twenty-two across: nine letters. _Of epic proportions; extravagant._ "

You'd patrolled the mountains before--usually over minor misdemeanors and the usual suspects. Vagrants, folks pissing out in the woods, the occasional bout of newlywed hikers getting lost. You'd been graced with a civilian walking through the bushes sans pants once because he'd "lost his way" the night before and was too drunk to continue on driving to safely arrive home. Needless to say, you're wondering if your _sans pants_ situation had anything to do with the fact that you'd written that guy a citation for _public drunkenness and a DUI._

Your fingertips grace the spot it had happened--near the river bend, closer to the dense thickets and forest. Jacob's pencil doesn't move, not until you hum a little under your breath, studying the planes and levels of the map. When Jacob enlisted your help through John, you weren't expecting this.

" _Grandiose_ ," you finally say, eyeing the thick permanent marker crossed over a spot beneath your palm. "Has to be it."

Something cool and wet presses against the side of your jeans--then the telltale wagging, the rowdy fur and _tip-tap_ of nails and paws against the wooden floor. Your hand reaches down, stroking between the ears of the oversized canine allowed to freely roam the veterans home of Jacob's overwatch, smiling a little to the soft whine you're met with.

The redheaded Seed doesn't even lift an eye your way, jotting down into the empty boxes again but voice full of dry mirth. "These are _wolves_ , Rook, don't forget that."

Kind of hard _not_ to when it comes time for them to stand on their hind legs, front paws on your shoulders and panting in your face. You glance downwards at the silvered fur beneath your palm, ears alert and perked, the markings as Jacob's own in crimson paint across its forehead and snout. Bright, pure amber eyes. You'd heard before wolves were born with blue ones first, and maturity took care of the rest.

You're reminded of your own blue-eyed companion, trying to keep focus on the task at hand without getting too distracted with yourself. Your hand withdraws, reaching for the other sources Jacob's provided on the table--intelligence, witnesses, clandestine photos and files on those involved in the militia.

"If I didn't know any better, I'd think this one had a soft spot for me," you shoot back in return.

A paw reaches up and plants itself on your arm, whimper soft and scratchy for your attention. Jacob lets out a deep sigh, watching as you reach down to pat his loyal companion between the ears again. Even his stern, flat gaze isn't enough to set the beast running for the hills--it's worth it, apparently, for your pets.

You take his short grunt as a sign of defeat as he resumes his crossword, ignoring the coddling of your minute victory.

Silence fills the void and the record still has some ways to go before reaching the center, the sound of Jacob's pencil scratching against the newsprint. You sense there's been a mutual understanding between the two of you--one that doesn't need words, mindless verses and sermons to fathom one another. He enjoys the silence just as much as he does breaking it, piping up every so often for another word he needs help on.

It's his next words that seem to send these _dimensions_ and _grandiose_ ideas out the window, enough to physically garner your attention towards him.

"And if I didn't know any better, I'd think my baby brother does too."

You feel your skin raising, an array of gooseflesh against the cool shade of the room with the open balcony. But you can still steel yourself--you've met vets who became cops, had clashed with too many on how to do the job back on domestic soil. You'd fought tooth and nail your whole career since squatting in class over theses and theories about the application of the law in society against professors, other students. But that's all it is down to brass tacks--just you steeling yourself, your rigid spine to give yourself some semblance of the metaphorical backbone.

You'd been nothing but a fresh-faced baby in the fifth grade when you'd seen the news--of the first responders, of the War on Terror. You thought you'd known what you'd always want to be then. And Jacob is there to remind you of the reality, to drag you back by the neck like a wolf's fangs keeping to his kin.

It means you can't deny anything you say to him, whether you like it or not. Jacob doesn't need to pull the truth from you. His motif is that he _knows_ you will.

"I care about him," you admit, watching the beams of sunlight that filter through the cracks of the walls. They stream against the map, your fingers, against Jacob's unbuttoned uniform shirt. "I really do."

Those bright blue eyes, just like his brothers. Something deeper, sadder that you're unsure he sees within himself when he's standing in front of the mirror every morning. You wonder how long he's been like this--alone, the strayed wolf from the pack. Your words, you feel, sink into him, resonate within those hollow walls of his chest.

He's no longer fixated on his crossword, contemplating you instead. Searching and organizing his words into methodical order, just like the puzzle beneath his fingers.

"Do you understand the influence you have over him?" he questions, voice clear. And that clarity translates. "What you do to him?"

The goosebumps are still there--against your biceps, your forearms, a shiver at the base of your neck. Jacob doesn't bat an eye, doesn't move in any other manner to divert your attention from his words.

"No," you murmur.

"That night, when you'd been blasted full of nothing but holes?" Jacob begins. "He'd called for me. I came all the way from the Whitetail Mountains with enough men for a raid and more ammo than we could ever need. And you know what he told me?"

Your throat tightens, mouth dry as Jacob leans back against the rickety chair. Still studying you, still sad, still the lone wolf he is. " _We're cleaning house_."

_They fucking killed every last one of them. Anyone connected to the shooting that day, anyone who was or wasn't involved in that church massacre then--what goes around comes around. They weren't just cleaning house. John led a fucking **crusade**._

He looks like some seraph sitting in his too-small chair, eyes on you, _only you_.

"Midway through, I ask him: Don't you wanna change, John?" His voice rumbles, trembles through your still veins. Hands motioning to his chest, his palms, his arms where the sleeves rest. "He still had blood on him, you see. Your blood. He was soaked in it, I didn't think he could even shoot straight with so much of it on his hands."

And he smiles something so surreal, so etheric to him, showing some teeth. He looks good, handsome when he does, but never often. "And do you know what he said to me?"

_No._

"He said to me: I want them to see what they did to her."

He is never basked in full sunlight. Like that warmth isn't enough for him, can't seep into the very depths of his bones, but it's clear in his mind, his words. "That's devotion, Rook. More powerful than any god, more compelling than any faith there is to know. Joseph was right."

Your chest is tight, warm, his words filling every inch of you and letting those seeds cultivate and grow pure. The thought of your survival, your miracle, this waged war the man you'd once considered an unknown enemy behind the iron sight of your rifle. 

Forget _dimensions, grandiose_ \--it's _devotion_ , enough to possess a man to turn back on his faith, his beliefs, his values. You found the word you couldn't describe then amidst the throttling gunfire, looking into those wide blue eyes, that bruising grip against your arm. The boy in the kitchen, terrified of the sins a child shouldn't have to confess, melting away at the simple touch of your hand against his.

And devotion is a two-way street. A mutual reciprocity, a loyalty with no formal contract.

A religion.

 

 

The road is familiarly another rocky ride inside of the cult pickup, but you're not graced with John's knee knocking into your own this time.

Like some child being juggled between custody, you couldn't help but snort at the snappy tone of John over the radio when Jacob finally decided to pick up; the only reason why he'd ever agreed in the first place to _loan_ you over to Jacob was because of duties to oversee with Joseph, and you imagine the Baptist didn't want another repeat scenario of you getting riddled with holes again.

Now that John's finally free from his duties, it seems he's ready to play with his dearly departed from the toy box. And John, you imagine humorously, isn't one to share, especially with the likes of his oldest brother.

Just because you're on amiable speaking terms with both brothers doesn't automatically translate to the rest of the crowd--it's most definitely silent and awkward the entire drive back to Holland Valley, nothing but river and dense forest hugging the sloping hills of the mountainside. You're aware of the much empty seat sitting and dividing between you and the passenger to your right--the same man who, a year ago, could be found with you under different circumstances.

The plate of his badge twinkles, glimmers something weak in the setting sun. You remember yours more distinctly--caked in dirt, badge number scorching in the pyre Dutch buried it beneath. You'd shed your uniform long ago, had ceased to play dress-up any longer. A year ago, you had been laughing with the same man beside you, bag of takeout fries wedged between the shifting gear after another uneventful day on the beat.

Ever since your arrival, Pratt hasn't looked you in the eye. Always around you, below your neckline, never asserting that otherwise promising contact. His long-bruised eye, somehow still attempting to carry himself in all the presentation a good officer should; arms behind his back, chest out. A year ago, it would've worked--his uniform was a lot more in _pristine_ condition then.

You notice how attentive, watchful he is of your every action that carries his possessed motivation. How he'd opened the car door for you earlier, checked your seat, your surroundings. It didn't take long for the realization to come to you, what Jacob had tasked his new assistant with.

You imagine Pratt's life, in some ways, is tied to yours. Why he doesn't try to meet your gaze yet always watchful of your side of the road. It's why he's the first one to notice and break the silence--voice loud, alien to you, like he's been rewired to speak a different way entirely.

"Road block," Pratt warns, leaning across towards the driver's seat. Suddenly frenzied, panicked. "Up ahead, get us off the path--kill the fucking lights!"

And it's not one of yours--a checkpoint set up by unmarked vehicles that could more or less be those of the resistance. Armed guards. Whitetail militia, to your knowledge, were about hit and runs, Blitzkrieg maneuvers. Quick and out. They didn't dawdle, didn't have the time or resources to set up blockades, especially this far in the mountains.

The pickup becomes the equivalent of a rocking bouncy house, seatbelt digging into your chest against the still fresh wounds there. You're convinced that no one in the cult can legally drive--the rock the driver hits nearly sends you and Pratt into the front seat, and you're worried what's going to really kill you first: the resistance, or bad driving habits.

The tense chatter between Pratt and the driver sudden stalls when the brightest pair of fog lights flood into the car from behind, blinding the rearview mirror into your eyes.

And you're the only one who apparently has a voice still, reaching from the depths of your lungs: fucking _FLOOR IT_.

The driver's foot stamps down on the gas too quickly, grinding dirt and grass beneath the wheels as the high beams suddenly approach the car in blinding radiance. It's too bright--far too bright for any real traffic regulations, that fucking pestering legal side of you can't help but notice, but it's done with a purpose. For this exact purpose, the driver swerving, running over thickets and branches smacking against the windshield with no true direction.

You can hear the deafening pickup behind you, designed for this type of off-roading. You imagine its driver and occupants are just as _designed_ for this type of culling, but no bullets are pelting at you, no one is trying to really get a _look_ at any of you.

Your hand reaches for Pratt to drag him closer, mouth to his ear, to let him hear you over the snapping branches and roaring engines and panicked shouts of the other two occupants in the car.

_Trying to scare us. Trying to herd us somewhere._

Pratt finally, in that blinding clarity, looks you in the eyes, your faces washed out in the dazzling light like rapture.

And he listens--someone finally listens as he takes control again, screaming hoarsely, "For fuck's sake, get us back on the _road!_ "

But you can't--there's only a clearing up ahead, one that the driver stays on, your one true chance. And the pickup lurches, bumper grinding against bumper once, twice, and any more and the pickup will have to swerve in one direction or another if you're overrun. The engine can't compete--another hard lurch is hell on your aching bones, your pulsing, healing scars, and you're much aware of the pickup _pushing_ your vehicle even faster, closer to the clearing.

And it's brighter here--open field, the view of the starlit sky, like a breath of air after plunging into deep water.

But none of you expect the blitz play, the T-bone. The ram of another vehicle into Pratt's side of the car, how the steel framework of the old pickup bends, groans, _warps_ against the force of impact against the front passenger. How time seems to slow, just like those crash-dummy tests car manufacturers are always touting on the commercials. You remember learning this years ago, nothing more than a baby-faced teen sitting behind a desk in driver's ed. Have seen it yourself when answering the call.

_People are squishy. Cars aren't._

That empty space Pratt seemed to enjoy keeping between you is violated when he's thrown _into_ your body, helpless against the screeching door panel being pushed inwards. The side of your head thrown in whiplash too hard against the glass of the window.

_Struck side gets most of the severe injury. Side car crash. Chest, head, abdomen injuries. Organs get moved, too._

Pratt's elbow knives itself deep into your ribs, exerting such a force you feel tears well up into your eyes when you can physically feel your ribs _cave_. The gunshot wounds flare, angry and raging against your carelessness to stay out of trouble.

_Passenger on the non-struck side can still suffer severe injuries. Head, chest trauma. Because of the seatbelt, the passenger next to them._

And then it comes to a halt, like someone pressing fast-forward after seconds on the slow down. Pratt heavy against your body, head wilting on your shoulder. The driver holding down the horn with his chest, face deep against the dashboard. The other passenger slumped more severely, deeply into the driver's side where the majority of the impact had taken place. The door panel isn't holding together much, your eyes bleary, swimming in an adrenaline-fueled euphoria that shocks your system into shut down. Glass glitters the dashboard, windshield a spider web of fissures and endless cracks.

And this thought you have, this irritation--aren't you almost murdered enough on a regular basis?

You're so disappointed, would walk the rest of the way back to the ranch if you could to John. Him, waiting with dinner probably ready, prepared to talk your ear off, to reprimand you for not taking your painkillers regularly as prescribed by the good miracle doctor. Because you listen to him, spoil his every social whim by giving him an even truer treatment--by just treating him as nothing more, nothing less, just _as is_.

You're disappointed that he has to sit at the table by himself tonight--alone in the kitchen where he seems most animated, pleasant with you--and perhaps for the rest of his nights to come.

 

 

God, you feel, has something in mind for you.

And you come to this conclusion just as you had when Joseph had been right the first time. Had told you God wouldn't let you take him, the Rider on the White Horse. You have a part in all of this, just as Joseph's visions do, just as John and Jacob and Faith do.

But your purpose, you feel, is not clear. It's why pain throbs at every crevice inside your skull, breath hot, and every nerve in your body is alight with frenzied pain. You come to this conclusion, this purpose God has for you, because you're still here. Breathing, even if it's pained, as if a lung of yours has collapsed against your stirring innards. You should be dead. _You should be dead._

But you're not. Not when that first blasting wave of ice-cold water stabs into your flesh, dripping into your clothes and wetting the cloth covering your head. An immediate feedback happens--you choke to life, inhaling that water into all the wrong pipes, body seizing up and pulling against the restraints you're once again bonded to. What you suspect is boating rope cuts and chafes against your too-tightly bound wrists, legs pressed together to accommodate every restraint to render you immovable.

"Oh, for god's _sake_ , Tammy! You're drowning the poor kid!"

That first gasp of air is righteous, inhaling greed straight into your lungs. You blink away the harsh lights, already having dealt with that enough--cringing if your body is angled a certain way, black cloth freed from your face and soaked with water.

The telltale dripping pail is still in her hand, this washed out soccer mom and the man kind enough to alleviate you from _this_ aspect of the torture.

The room is simple, concrete, fortified. A small bench filled with oodles of goods, like a car battery, clamps, miles upon miles of wire that you're uncertain has much of any other function--you're _right here_ if any statements need to be made. Frankly you hope one of these folks knows how to resuscitate you in time if any confessions are to be said, suddenly aware of the shallow water surrounding your chair.

You blink very slowly, words slurring. "Why… why am I in a kiddie pool?"

"Dep?" the man with the unnaturally thick beard calls out, hand waving in front of your unfocused gaze. "Deputy, you hear me?"

 _Deputy. Deputy, Deputy, Junior Deputy._ No one's addressed you like that in what feels like ages, this new skin of yours ready to shed, to peel away and scar all over anew. You'd gotten rid of _Deputy_ and _officer_ and _protect and serve_ under those oaths long ago, remember? Perhaps not that--perhaps it's _who_ you've decided to give this oath to, that all this training and education you've received had been all for naught.

"I'm telling you, Eli, and I'm telling it to you again. She's Jacob's. She's _been_ one of Jacob's--"

"I'm _not_ letting you take a car battery to the Dep, Tam, we _need_ her--"

"Do we? _Really?_ "

"Yes!" _You almost burst out **laughing** at hearing that, you really do._ "We can try something else, if you're that worried. But I don't think so. This wasn't supposed to happen. But we got dealt our hand--and we got the Dep."

Eli, you presume, suddenly familiar by the mountain of posters warranting his arrest, comes into clearer view. Hands on his hips, a kind face weathered by the few hours of sleep that you assume he rarely gets. And yet he always has time out of the twenty-four hours to somehow remain vigilant, careful of Jacob and his men. How he was able to stay elusive for this long from the cult is curiosity forever veiled. But you remember something--something important, deep within the soft walls of your soul, ankle heavy, reminiscing those tattooed hands against your naked legs.

God, you realize in perfect clarity, droplets of water cooling your skin in the middle of the kiddie pool, has a plan for you.

Your lips tremble, eyes half-lidded, drugged up on fading adrenaline and bruised flesh. You don't realize how much of a madman you sound until after the words are past your mouth. "It's too late. He's going to kill every single one of you."

The two glance at one another, silent. Eli is the first to come up, to vouch for you and really--under the right circumstances this would've worked. It could've. Why he's so insistent on your survival, you don't have a clue. But he isn't you. Past and further beyond the point of no return, undeserving of salvation, marked for death by the hands of Joseph Seed.

"Who?" Eli bites.

Tammy scoffs in disbelief. "Why does it matter? We've been living on borrowed time for this long. What did I say--she's _Jacob's_."

John, you feel, would disagree.

You shake your head again. "He's coming. They're coming… you shouldn't have done this, you've made a mistake, you're going to _die_ …"

"Get the recording," Eli orders to Tammy. Like you can't detect that somehow faded sadness perturbed in his voice at your manic state, wanting to go home, wanting to sleep in the warmth of familiar blankets. "If you really think she's one of his… we have to."

Honestly, you expected some welcome party step-by-step slideshow of the twenty reasons why you should join the Whitetail militia. Instead you get a mixtape--a mixtape with only one fucking song on it, cranked to a volume so high it's purposefully designed to claw into your brain and chew it out. The acoustics in this room are literally the epitome of hell on earth, because every sound is bouncing back and assaulting your eardrums louder than you can scream.

It goes on like this, on loop, for what must be an hour's worth of The Vines shrieking into your poor fucking ears about how to free yourself from this torture.

_But you're not. You're not indoctrinated, you're not some mindless tool acting as just another cog in Joseph's machine. You have your autonomy, even if it has its limitations. You want to scream this out, shout it against the walls to make it clear: that you wanted this, and that you didn't need to be **saved** , that you already were until they showed up._

The headache only persists, amplified by the ringing in your ears when the music is finally shut off. You don't feel any more free than you do being bound to this chair, a payload of electricity waiting to be prepped into the wires and clamps and into your veins like some live conductor if their experiment fails.

And you're miserably exhausted--hearing faded, restless yet too weak to fight it, shifting against the boat ropes. Even in that glimmering hopelessness you find comfort where you can, alone in the room, just as John probably is back in that ranch-style kitchen.

Your tongue sweeps your dry lips, slouching into your chair, humming to yourself like that fluttering songbird whistle of the man you love: _We'll meet again, don't know where, don't know when. But I know we'll meet again some sunny day…_

 

 

Eli returns, as he usually does, to refill your water and provide you rations.

The kiddie pool has been shoved aside and emptied--the room now converted into a makeshift holding cell. You prefer the furthest corner, not like you had much to choose from at all, knees pressed to your chest. They don't ever tell you the time, and you don't bother to ask. Sometimes they'll give you a crossword puzzle torn from an old newsprint if you ask nicely, much to some of their odd looks. Today, however, you're suddenly hyperaware of Eli's careful gaze on your form.

He pushes the water and MRE closer to you, screwing the cap back onto his canteen. Studying you like there's something more to it when you've made it stark and clear.

And he's still soft, kind, worried. He reminds you of Whitehorse in some ways, your chest aching as you press your dirt-matted cheek against a knee.

"You need to eat, Dep," he says, tone quiet. "Keep up your strength. I hate to see you like this."

 _Then let me go_ , you want to scream. _I don't belong here. You don't have any right, any say in what I should want_.

Eli, his heart laid bare, trusts you. It's his fellow compatriots that are keeping you here--you, the deputy rumored to have turned against the resistance and therefore the Whitetails, working with the heralds of the cult to further their agenda. You, who was rumored to have been dead only until now, much to Eli's shock.

How long have you been here? Days--a week max? The plastic around your ankle hidden beneath your lace-up boot shouldn't feel as comfortable as it's intended to be, but your concerns are enough to visibly shake you--wasn't John supposed to know? And if so, wouldn't he have come any sooner?

In your mind you think of all the possibilities, giving him the benefit of the doubt--that it takes time to mobilize the forces for another one of his ready-made crusades. To get the weapons and materials necessary to even start one. You imagine the logistics and economics of these things, how much time, money, and resources of the cult are being poured into funding John's infatuation.

The more you think of it, the more you think of this situation as unbecoming. Deserving--but for who, you've yet to see.

You plead, voice hoarse, for what must be the umpteenth time over the course of your captivity here. Like some sort of mantra to keep you sane despite the admonition you try to warn Eli with.

"You have to let me go. He's not going to let you walk away from this."

Eli's expression darkens into worry. "Dep…"

"You don't _understand!_ " you nearly cry out, frustrated, almost ashamed against your knees. "You don't understand that this is only ever going to end one way."

Something quakes above, wobbles the fluorescent lights so hard that dust and particles come shaking free from the ceiling. Like an explosion, a collapse.

You squeeze your eyes shut, shaking your head, Eli's gaze widening. His radio crackles in static, compound bow in hand as another explosion rattles the ceiling bulbs.

"I told you," you repeat, voice faded. "You were right. I'm not one of Jacob's."

And it's there he takes you in, the sweaty, crumpled, and bloodstained shirt. The first few buttons undone, flesh scarred, your tattooed fingers hugging your legs. The rumors return, the broadcasts, the rewards, the MIA reports. Eli knows how Jacob operates simply because of geography, and he'd never learn to love thy neighbor. You were never indoctrinated, it finally becomes vibrantly stark to Eli. Through process of elimination, he seems visibly disturbed, meeting the dark, tired circles of your gaze. _Wrath_ and _lust_ in the handwriting of the Baptist, worn proudly, unapologetically.

 _But I am one of John's_.

And you whistle, eyes closed, another thundering rumble rattling the room: _So will you please say hello to the folks that I know, tell them I won't be long…_

"Fucking _hell_ ," is all Eli can say.

He's gone in the next moment, just as you're sure every able body here is trying to mobilize out of the bunker. And you sit there, legs crossed before you, head leaning back against the cool concrete wall at your back. Hands folded against your belly, whistling still as dust scatters across your dirt-trampled jeans. If you didn't know any better, the surface above sounds strangely like some nuclear fallout; one of the lights gets knocked out from a particularly-- _grandiose_ \--explosion.

_They'll be happy to know that as you saw me go, I was singing this song…_

The first resonating gunshot you hear startles you out of instinct, but you sit still-- _keep smiling through, just like you always do_ \--as it's followed by another crack of gunfire. Single shot, close quarters, fighting in a constricted bunker. You need a shotgun for the tight range, need someone to watch your back and corners simultaneously--it explains the screaming, the footsteps from the unfamiliar faces outside.

You warned them, didn't you?

And you hear something distinct, a voice that breaks apart the gunpowder and smoke: " _You took something of mine._ " 

Just as Vera Lynn coos and promises, you whistle louder: _Till the blue skies drive the dark clouds far away._

Your attention diverts to the doorway, the sudden ensuing silence that pauses both gunfire and speech. Something scratching at the door in rapid eagerness, a howl--an actual, legitimate howl and whine, a snout sniffing rapidly against the crack between the opening doorway and concrete. 

And, truly, it is everything Vera promises: you do meet again. You do smile, genuine, soft, relieved as you see home in those blue eyes.

The wolf squeezes past the legs of John and dives into your legs, whimpering, whining, stuffing its snout against the side of your neck in unconditional worry. You wrap your arms around the judge to keep it still but it's no use, and Jacob is right as usual--these are _wolves_ , lapping at your chin and bearing red war paint.

But there's someone you miss more, his hands egging your newfound companion aside--John in his long coat, those tiny planes warming your heart because it's simultaneously _endearing_ and delightful of him compared to his dramatic ass.

His hand extends outwards, face unreadable, tattooed fingers inviting your own.

You can't even get a word out, body suddenly lurching forward when you take it--his grip too tight, too powerful around your sore and bruised body, but you welcome it, you allow him this moment. Your own arms are fastened around him, inhaling the same touch of him against the duvet covers you'd spent so much time recovering on. There's gunpowder laced there, the touch of his cologne, and his arms are still too tight--you can hardly breathe when you gasp his name out.

"I'm okay," you reassure him, nails running against the back of his coat. He doesn't loosen his grip at all, as if trying to confirm that you're real, pressed against him like this. "It's okay."

"It's not _okay_ ," you hear the way he spits the word out like some venomous snake. "They took you from me. That will _never_ … be _okay_."

You shush him, fingers running through the back of his hair--an action that almost seems to soothe him, as if he's been the one locked up in a cell for a week. But you say nothing, allowing him to use you as this allegorical stress ball--you try to move an inch and he only squeezes, not prepared to let you go just yet.

"Can we--" You squirm, and he finally seems to allow you movement. Blue eyes almost maniacal, crazed, and you can't be sure-- _frightened_. "Can we go home? Please?"

He seems pleased with this, a request that he can fulfill easily--he guides you with a hand at the small of your back, rushing you quickly through the doorway you'd only dreamed of days ago to see yourselves walking through. And it's a haze, almost a dream--the smell of blood familiar, against the walls, his coat draped around your shoulders without you needing to ask. 

You try not to look at the bodies, but you can't help it. You see the wool green cardigan; the braids of the boy who had come in once or twice to offer you something to listen to. They're both facedown, quiet, unmoving. John tells a cultist ahead of him to double-check and brain everyone a second time, just in case.

"We have the ammo for it," John reasons briskly, almost delightedly. "So make it count. My parting gift to them."

You don't see Eli, you realize, coming to the steps of the entrance. You know it is--you can smell the cool air, the dew frosted and wet against the steps trailing up the slope. It's morning. Not a cloud in sight, the sun hidden behind the mountains. John's men keep the perimeter in check for any Whitetails that may still be lingering outside of the bunker of the wolf's den, some turning to you, _nodding_ to you in some meaning you don't seem to understand.

The familiar shaved sides of a redheaded Seed comes into view--Jacob turns from the Humvee, rifle hanging on his back. The judge nudges past your legs and to its proper owner, kneeling at Jacob's heels as you both stop before him.

He towers over you, and you finally see that unnaturally thick, dark beard from past his Airborne patch--Eli stands, haggard and beaten, wrists bounded and with Jacob's men on either of his sides.

"Rook," he begins, pressing a weathered palm against the side of your neck in what you feel is a rare affection from him. "You look like hell. But I guess I have you to thank for this."

Jacob motions over his shoulder to where Eli stands, blood pouring from a nostril as he lifts his dark gaze your way. But he is still saddened somehow, like what his intentions were had been for nothing. But it's true, even here to him now, with John's hand at your hip and Jacob's palm on your shoulder; the reverence the judge appraises you with, the silence the others receive around you three. 

You didn't need saving, you'd warned him again and again--not from him, at least. He realizes, you want to believe, that it's you who'd been trying to save _him_.

Jacob's words seem to trigger his baby brother, who seems suddenly agitated, accusing of the eldest Seed.

"You used her as _bait?_ " John seems to bite the sentence out, his fingers digging into your hip. A bruise is already there long before he'd touched you, but you don't wince--instead your fingers come up, resting against his sins inscribed there in comfort.

You shake your head. "No, he didn't. He wouldn't have."

Jacob hums, glancing over at the Whitetail leader. "When I asked for your help I didn't mean get yourself _captured_. You know how many crosswords I had to put on hold?" 

John seems restless as usual, but even he knows he must be grateful. Without Jacob, you take note, this wouldn't have played out as it did.

"We killed two birds with one stone today, Rook." Jacob turns to Eli, motioning for his men to lead the haggard man to the nearest cult truck. "Thanks for leading us right to them."

And he leaves it at that--or wants to. John is already prepared to steer you away into the waiting Humvee when you call out, "How did you find me?"

Both Seed brothers pause--you feel John's fingers tense as he looks away, Jacob's shoulders a little more stiff than usual. The implications of your question leave no witnesses: _Why did it take you all so long? What was the wait for?_

The eldest Seed seems to shrug, eyes motioning to John, but his hand reaches into his back pocket of those faded jeans. He pulls something out--a blue cloth of silk, stained and fresh with a strange color until you realize, with wide eyes, what this was torn from.

_He said to me: I want them to see what they did to her._

The judge comes forward, sniffling against the cloth, remembering the scent at its master's whim. Your confusion is clear, expression clouded as John suddenly urges you forward without another word into the vehicle. You do so without complaint, eyeing the driver and finding that isn't the same one who'd been responsible for your earlier fiasco, John coming in to sit at your side in an instant.

The radio is the only thing that breaks the silence of the journey back towards Holland Valley. And while the roads are uneven, as usual and regardless of driver, neither you or John seem to mind the bumping knees this time. If anything, he seems to _welcome_ it--a reminder that you're still here with him, alive and breathing, and he appears to confirm this when that star-studded hand rests against your thigh.

You still ache, you're sure you're suffering still from some poorly managed concussion, but, like Joseph, God has a plan for you both now.

Your hand reaches as you glance at the Henbane beneath the bridge, glistening water against the morning sun. You murmur _thanks_ , fingers squeezing John's, and he utters back _you're very welcome_.

 

 

You notice something about the record spinning in the living room--it's playing Billie Holiday, the album you'd pulled from his collection and accidentally left out one day on the kitchen counter.

Life back at the ranch is reminiscent of some old, faded picture that hasn't lost its luster. And though it's been days since your return, you can't help but notice how John's presence is always _around_ you in some way, hovering like some fluttering bee, even when it's not needed. You realize that he's home more often than usual, something that concerns you because, well--he _is_ a herald. Shouldn't he be out there performing his duties?

When you'd brought this up with him he'd given you this strange look--then proceeded to shove another bowl of ice cream in your face after you'd admitted to a hunger for it _three days ago_. Somehow the freezer is stocked with it now, and by the tubs after you'd mentioned the insignificant craving to him.

Then there was another time you'd mentioned to him after having to deal with his shampoo for another night of one more suitable for your hair--all in hindsight, truthfully. You didn't expect the tub to be loaded with an assortment of products that he'd wordlessly left there later, unknowing to your knowledge how he'd found the time to collect them at all.

His affection and attention are wonderful, truly; he's been such a good boy for holding himself back from ravaging you since your return, but it does get a bit overwhelming when he's trying to stuff you with every meal he can make from his fridge.

You complain, finally, by the end of the week, still a bit out of touch since your capture.

"John," you start almost exasperatedly, trying to read a novel you'd lifted from the now upright bookcase, and bundled in a sweater-knit blanket up to your shoulders. "I'm not hungry."

It's like the combination of these words don't compute within him, standing there with his plate of food, troubled. "…Why?"

It's your turn to give him a strange look. "Why? You fed me like… not even half an hour ago?"

His gaze turns down to it, as if that couldn't be the possibility. "What, is there something wrong with it?"

Your confusion deepens, and it's now your turn to worry. 

Alright--take a step back. _Look at this through his eyes_ , you reason with yourself. You'd been gone for almost a week, captured by an enemy unknown to him. He assumed you to be under the inimitable protection of his military brother, but even that wasn't enough to keep you safeguarded. He'd led another one of those expensively-funded campaigns for your retrieval and retribution-- _again_. Had assumed you to be dead-- _again_.

And in both accounts, you come to a conclusion, he hasn't been able to really _do_ anything to aid you back to health. Sure, he'd dragged your would-be corpse to the best cult doctor Faith could manage him, but even your survival then had been predicted as nothing more than a _miracle_. And now, with you noticeably a bit skinnier than he'd last remembered, there isn't much he can do still, as the doctor had only advised you a more well-fed diet and plenty of rest for your wounds.

_Okay. That explains why he's trying to stuff my face at every moment he can._

So you sigh, taking the plate from his hands and setting it aside to eat. You promise him this, but first go to rise and stand from the couch, the blankets falling free as you step towards him.

His eyes are shameless, glancing downwards at the lack of pants you have on, bearing only another one of his shirts.

"Thank you," you sigh against him, and you hide your eye roll when you feel those hands slipping against your ass. _Figures. He'll cop a feel at any opportunity he can._ "But you don't have to do all of this for me, you know."

"You're my responsibility," he fires back, and you really can't hide it this time--when his whole hand squeezes a cheek you shoot him a look. "Those who stand against us need to understand what they're risking by not standing _with_ us, Rook."

"Probably not the hottest thing you've said thus far," you respond back, and in return both hands are pressing, squeezing against the round flesh there. You sigh, cheek against the vest he's so keen to wear, arms around his neck. "But you're right, as usual."

This stroke of his ego pleases him, not much to your surprise. But there's something that still eggs at you, prods at you in discomfort, and you can't help but pull back, taking in his disgruntled expression by the loss of contact, his hands returning to your hips. You allow him this.

It's a question that needs an answer now, not later, your ankle still heavy, unforgotten.

And John senses this somberness overtaking you, like he wants to know the cause and source of what has you upset. The last thing he expects, however, is it to be _him_.

"The monitor," you begin simply, watching those captivating eyes. "It doesn't work, does it, John?"

Billie Holiday is the only one who sings in this stillness, John frozen, expression indecipherable. He's a lawyer, you always have to remind yourself. He's been trained for this. Every face, every emotion he ever has to exhibit is one that must be coached, articulated, and delivered in such a specific manner so as to not give up any of his motives, the imperative details. In other words, _lying_ between his teeth is his profession that pays handsomely when performed well.

As a child, you believe, this is where it was learned--the idea to become manipulative in order to survive. To become that good liar, to learn to get what you always want with just words alone and nothing more.

He chooses his words, expression careful, articulating them wisely. "I said I would know if you'd run free," he defends, tension as taut as a thin fishing wire about to snap. "I didn't say that it would work."

_Ah. So he's pulling the "read the fine print" argument._

His words do nothing to mitigate the situation, if anything it feels _worse_ , evident by that distraught look on your face.

Your words sting him more than he expects, his eyes widening. "You lied to me?"

_He did. Perhaps he didn't chain you here physically, no, but in your mind, yes. To instill and coerce you with the belief that you had no choice but to stay here, to be with him, to perform with him. But why? These are the actions of a desperate man, of a man who wants something more but is too afraid to admit it._

The mistake you make is that you go to move past him, around him--and that suddenly gets his hands on your upper arms, keeping you in place, his grip a little harder than necessary. Always the aggressive man, one who still can't seem to control his passion, his emotions in check. Maybe that desperation you think is leading him is coming to fruition before you, eyes wide, waiting for him to speak now that he still has you prisoner.

It's _he_ who looks distraught now, his lips pursing, eyes conflicted. Like he can't figure out how to rightly convey what he feels--you've been around him this long to understand what he wants without words alone, something you feel he's forever grateful to you for. For a man who's been trained in the art of practicing law, he can't seem to find the words in the face of you.

Your palms, still soft and saintly, reach for his waist to calm him that you're not leaving him anytime soon. "You lied to me because you think I would have ran off the moment I could, right, John?"

He says nothing, not at first. Until finally, it's him saying _yes_ to you.

"You lied because you wanted me to stay here with you, right?"

"Yes," he utters again.

"And you lied to me because you wanted to see if I would leave you. If I wanted to stay here by choice or if I really would leave, right?"

"Yes," he nearly whispers, lashes against his cheeks.

Your palms race up against his vest, cupping his jaw in familiar warmth, an action that he seems to pride himself in you. You smile in reverence, watching as he falls apart beneath your gaze--this man who has no choice but to lay himself bare, his soul, his body, the _sloth_ on his chest nothing more than a figment of his mind.

"I'm not mad," you admit to him. His eyes lift to meet yours, surprised at your delicate frown. "I'm disappointed."

Had your hands been against his chest you would have felt that beat skip. He almost grimaces at these words, eyes traveling downcast until you urge him not to. That you haven't finished speaking just yet, finding ways to surprise him yet again.

"Not in you, John," you continue. "I'm disappointed because you thought I'd leave at all."

These words are almost alien, foreign to him. For every slight he's made there has been nothing but punishment, absolution, begging to be relieved of the sin and freed. And this, you feel, makes him weak--not in the ways that Jacob preaches, no, but in his faith, his devotion to you.

You don't expect him to go on his knees, tattooed fingers clenching in the fabric of the shirt covering your waist. His eyes looking upwards to your face, your beloved reverence. It's not in your place to judge--only God is allowed that favor. But for you, he feels, an exception can be made. Pawing at your hips, hands slipping to the small of your back to bring you closer to him, his forehead pressed beneath your breasts.

You feel his breath, warm and harsh against you, and you know what this is--forgiveness in its physical divine form, this wish to be freed from the burden and its only salvation possible through your judgement.

Your fingers run through his hair, sunglasses gone, and cup the back of his head where he's pressed against your belly. His sighs are breathless, raising those hallowed blue eyes to yours from where he's perched at your feet.

You wonder about Joseph's words, this celestial fate of both your atonements, and marvel that, _yes. This is it._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> when will john finally smash rook into his mattress? prooobably next chapter!
> 
> and again, so many thanks for the lovely comments <333 i'll get back to them soon after some rest. here i go perpetually updating at 3am again!!!


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Now when the Pharisee who had invited him saw this, he said to himself, 'If this man were a prophet, he would have known who and what sort of woman this is who is touching him,'" Joseph continues, his eyes opening to you now. 
> 
> Those dark irises are cloudy behind his golden shades. "For she… is a sinner."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so the rest of the fic is definitely panned out and @gabby i'm still crying tbh i promise us some happy and tech bittersweet endings!!! also don't ask why the fuck this shit is like 15,000+ words I DON'T KNOW OKAY I JUST WANTED TO MAKE UP FOR ME BEIN FLAKEY. forewarning if you didn't read the last brief author's note but yeah let's be real rook and john finally get to bond together in holy smashing--FINALLY. there's also an earlier, small detail that i had to correct in a prior chapter about john's tattoos (correction from acedia to tristitia). have at it!
> 
> and of course, thanks so much for the wonderful support and patience!! ;^) shoutout to the my fc5 mutuals on tumblr for always providing that quality content that churns out the inspiration. you guys got the A+ goods!!!
> 
> speaking of tumblr, if y'all were interested in stopping to chat or peruse through, you can find me [riiight here.](http://www.infra-dead.tumblr.com/) ;^)
> 
> need music for the smashing?  
> the weeknd ft. lana del rey - stargirl  
> fka twigs - papi pacify  
> the weeknd - often  
> miguel - the valley (@melissa thanks for this one u thot!!!)  
> the weeknd - wicked games

Despite living under his wing for _this_ long, you didn't know what else you were expecting from John.

Surely, he's been extravagant before about his expenditures that he's ready and willing to spend on your whim (to your every embarrassed refusal, much to his confusion). And being melodramatic about every petty insignificant slight, like when you'd told him he should really invest in seasoning for a chicken dish he'd prepared a few nights ago? Just icing on the cake. And, to be fair, it _had been_ bland as hell. That doesn't stop the fact that he won't shower you with gifts at any occasion he so pleases. The guy doesn't even know when your _birthday_ is, but why bother when everyday could be?

Which is why, standing in front of the couches positioned before the fireplace, you aren't surprised to see John whistling happily to himself, his back to you. With only the fabric of your undergarments covering your lower half (hey, if Joseph gets to walk around without a shirt, you can walk around without any pants), you observe the domestic redecoration process of John's aesthetic.

Standing perched on a step ladder, you cross your arms and observe in silence, quirking an eyebrow when his fingers lift carefully at the bottom of Joseph's portrait hanging there above the mantle. Another songbird whistle later and the painting is removed from the hook on the wall--and, to your widened eyes, carelessly tossed aside, its glass cover smashing to the floor.

John is happily whistling still, leaning down for another covered painting he has to replace it. The tarp is torn off with finesse, and from this angle you can't see it--maybe Joseph had himself commissioned a new one again? You'd think there were more problematic things for him to take care of than have _another_ image of him being mass-produced--like the fact that people were _still_ not keen on joining up with him, but…

John's hands smack together, dusting them off as he places them proudly onto his hips with a deep sigh. You step to the side to catch a glimpse of the even larger portrait that now hangs above the mantle, and-- _and that's not Joseph, nope, that's not him at all. Joseph doesn't have a stacked rack._

Your mouth dries out.

And John seems to finally realize you've been standing there, overlooked by the very _accurate_ imitation of what you're positive is _you_ painted straight into canvas. Its style and inspiration are impressive, truly--an emulation of an old war pinup that you'd find in a barrack in the back of some soldier's locker, on the face of an old Zippo lighter, stripped off the walls and pocketed for later contraband. It's almost _too_ real, too… _sinful_ to completely feast your eyes upon, if you're being honest.

His face is quite the opposite--still buoyant, whistling paused as he glances from where your gaze is fixated over his shoulder to your own face.

"Ah," he goes on to say, smiling with a carefree shrug, arms extending out in magnificent flourish. "But the real thing… is even better."

His boots step down from the ladder as he closes the gap in hasty steps, your eyes fluttering shut when he leans in to press a quick kiss to your forehead. _Yes, he's certainly in a **very** bright mood today and you can only begin to imagine why that's so._ When he withdraws he's met with your bemused expression, to which his arm simply wraps around your shoulders to pull you into his side as you both appraise his finest creation. Like some artist judging his own work, and frankly you're almost _waiting_ for the Italian hands and smooching of his fingers, _perfezione_.

John doesn't. But he might as well have at this rate.

You're still a little concerned about the shattered glass that protects Joseph's portrait now on the floor and gathering dust, but John doesn't seem to mind--or even care--much of it.

John sighs. "So. What do you think?"

Well, there's a _lot_ you're thinking about right now, facial expressions ranging between eyebrow raising and mouth attempting to form the correct words. "Well, I--I think it's flattering. _Odd_ , but flattering. And extremely accurate. Almost _too_ accurate."

He clears his throat and seems to touch his phone, as if ensuring it's still in his back pocket. "The face, you mean? Why shouldn't it be?"

"I mean it's _great_ , but…"

Yes, the _but_ suddenly has him hanging by a thread. "But what?"

You motion almost in detached confusion around your own physical bosom, as if you yourself are uncertain about its accuracy. And John Seed never wants to be wrong, God forbid. "It's… you were very, um, _generous_ about this, I don't think I'm… _that_ stacked, John."

His face pauses, staring at you as if the order of those words shouldn't be possible but somehow has come forth from your voice. You almost eye roll when he glances downwards at your chest through your white V-neck, past the _wrath_ long-embedded there and almost prepared to reach a hand out for them if not for your pointed look.

"Well, _I_ think you are," is his defense. "And that makes me very, _very_ pleased."

"Oh, I'm sure you are, baby boy."

He really, _truly_ is, eyes still lingering in an almost dream-like trance at your chest until you elbow his side. "Stop that, you'll scare them."

As the old adage goes-- _it was worth a try_.

Thankfully you don't have to stare at your sultry and vixen-portrayed self for long when John takes you back to the kitchen, filling you in on the usual news: how recruitment has been stalling, how Jacob has been handling the Eli situation. Pratt's survival is news to you, but you hear he's the usual worst for wear--he doesn't have a John Seed to breathe down his neck and drown him in tubs of ice cream in comparison.

What he tells you next has you pausing mid-sip of your sweet tea as he takes his own seat at the kitchen table.

"There'll be a family dinner on Sunday," he begins, almost carefully if anything. "More like a feast, a gathering. Joseph has these every so often--a common courtesy if you will. He asked to make sure you'll be there."

_He asked specifically for you? You haven't seen the guy since the start of all of this, why the sudden want for a catchup now?_

You shrug--not like you have much of a choice in that matter. "Works for me."

They can't be any different from the usual backyard barbeques you've been invited to, with probably less alcohol and even lesser fights about the Hope County Cougars record from like, _five_ seasons ago. Nick Rye had indulged you once the last time the Seeds had ever stepped foot on his property and, considering John doesn't really own any onion powder or recipes, someone from his family had brought over some _very_ notorious mac 'n' cheese.

You pray that there won't be any of that on the menu, and jest all you want, but John seems a little… _miffed_ about the prospect of this reunion altogether. And, as you're reminded of his own tensions, that commonality seems to project itself onto your own mind.

You want to hear his concerns, to not let him hide anything that may otherwise bother him later. "Something wrong with that?"

He fidgets with his own glass, condensation slipping from the glass in his hand. "I don't know. That's probably what _is_ wrong. The Father was… _insistent_ that you come."

Those fingers of his reach beneath the table, palm against your naked knee. His beard has grown out a little, something you're sure he'll have trimmed and have fixed soon, but those blue eyes and dark brows are ever the same. Calmer with you, bright and brilliant.

And he lets out this little breath, this even more amused smile, flashing you some teeth. "I don't know what for, didn't like the sound of it. Whatever it is, I want you to be careful. Those among us who lose faith don't share any part of the vision of Eden's Gate. But there are also those of us who may show… _too much_ of it. And you're not one of us to begin with."

Those implications are scaled, placed and weighted to judge. You don't want to burden or dampen his still rather pleasant mood--he's been happier most days, you come to notice, and nod your head when his thumb sweeps against your knee.

"I will," you reassure him. 

Thinking of the insinuations of what Joseph may potentially want with you, what he intends for you--and even John, perhaps. He had threatened to shut him out of the gates once. What's stopping him from making good on that word twice?

You try not to dwell too much on this--Sunday won't be here anytime soon. And he's been so sweet, so pliant and _giving_ to you, you can't help yourself, trying to fathom the fact that you both actually have enough _time_ to be alone together for once, with what him gone on Joseph's whim. You lean into him, where he's dragged the seat over to sit near you instead of across nowadays, his fingers digging into the flesh of your thigh when you lean up to peck warmly at his neck.

He worries too much, you come to realize, even if he may never say it. And those fingers at your thigh suddenly withdraw--you're unexpectedly perplexed when John repositions himself in his chair, facing you this time, his hands shooting forward to drag your seat closer to him. The legs screech harshly against the faded wooden flooring but it's the only reason why you flinch at all, meeting his blue gaze when he leans forward.

And that look is familiar--your throat suddenly parches, all sense of warm teasing gone when those blue eyes are clouded, blown-out. Like your simple touch is too much for him now, overpowering, scalding his skin, snapping his senses in half till they're flowing from his nerves no more. He seemed quite _pleased_ with the accuracy of your portrait--you imagine he's a little wired now that he's got the _real thing_ in front of him, touching him, ready to praise him yet again.

You don't want to break the silence to snap him out of this trance. So you lean your neck back, showing, _giving_ him your throat. 

He doesn't waste a second, your gasp breathy, fingers reaching up to clutch tightly at the arms of his silk shirt that almost slips from your grasp. It only gives you all the more reason to grip at him harder, his beard rough against your delicate skin there, but his teeth are even harsher.

Those hands of his reach upwards, and your throat catches as he presses his teeth down against the side of your neck, tattooed fingers circling your naked throat. The pressure is light, but it's enough for him when he hears it in your voice--and he _groans,_ like this touch-starved beast, raising his lips to kiss you open-mouthed.

You don't fathom your nails raking against his forearms, that array of inked images there, your half-lidded eyes as he's sent on this plight to devour you. And he's most _definitely_ vocal, you come to note; the rumbling of his chest sends shivers against your skin, your loins, stoking a fire that brings unbearable heat between your thighs when his fingers at your neck tighten with pressure just a _little_ more to hear you gasp out into his eager mouth.

When he pulls away it's almost as if he doesn't want to. But the results, it seems, are worth it. Blue eyes taking in your swollen, parted lips, breath hot against him as you fervently suck in a breath into your hungry lungs. The glossiness of your own gaze, hooded and all, the strength of your fingernails clamped into his raw skin. The redness of your throat, cheeks ablaze, and he's suddenly and painfully aware of your heaving chest.

John's eyes make contact with your own, hazy, pleasured, wanting more but voice lost to say it. You nod when he pauses, and that's all it takes.

He moves so quickly you're almost dazed when he stands, pulling you up with him so fast that you have to lean into his chest for support. And your eyes never leave him, can't leave him--his arm reaches out, carelessly sweeping over the books, the glasses of tea, the paperwork left on the table to the floor.

You don't even glance or flinch when the glasses crash and shatter to the ground, still fixated, enamored by how _good_ he looks, breathless in every way, until he's kissing you hard again. It's fueled by a ravenous hunger this time, reckless and needy, his fingers tangled in your hair. Your fingers are on autopilot, needing to touch him, needing to feel more of his skin, but he's selfish when you reach for the buttons of his vest.

Wordlessly he sweeps you onto the cleared surface, your breaths shaky and brittle when your back touches against it. And he's perched over you, standing between your bent knees, worshipping what he sees with ardent eyes. It's too hot in this summer haze, even within the ranch; John carelessly unfastens the buttons of his vest, your fingers reaching up to help him, and without ceremony he lets it slip to the kitchen floor.

But this isn't about him, you come to realize, his hands gripping your wrists firmly to stop you, your loins aching. He's here to remind you of that, guiding your hands to smooth against your thighs, his eyes fixated on your own before flickering downwards to your chest.

John's beginning to understand patience--the slow burn, the way it drags on despite the painful ache growing in his jeans, those large hands starting first at your hips where the hem of your shirt rests. And you watch his every move, his burning desire, your toes curling, heels against the edge of the table. How his fingers lift beneath it, palms still against you, needing that scorching contact as the fabric catches against his watch and wrist as he moves it upwards. A fusion of hot and cool air touches your belly, then below your chest, and finally you're much aware that he needs to begin _lifting_ your shirt if he's to get anywhere further.

You haven't stopped him yet and you let him know that, fingers fidgeting against your thighs where he's wanted you to keep them. And you can feel them trembling out of excitement, a bit of trepidation from the inexperience and unknown, but also curiosity to see those beautiful hands touch you in ways you could only dream. John is everything you imagine, from the way those hands trail against your skin to the lifting of your shirt over your bra, his eyes fixated, captivated first on your heaving chest until his gaze drifts momentarily.

You almost speak to break that silence, puzzled, wondering why he's stopped when he's so close to touching you where you want him to be. Only when he lifts a finger to trace, edge against the scarred, uneven flesh where bullets have left their own mark on you. You don't think of them much anymore, you realize--you've only been thinking of _him_ , of protecting him, guiding him, caring for what he's been starved of for so long. And this, you believe, is what has him so fixated at first, until you bring a hand up to touch the back of his own at one of your scars.

You whisper his name, and that seems to snap his gaze back to your own: heady, wanton, asking to be fucked. The reverence in his eyes is bright, more so than the sunbeams filtering through the windows. Who is he to deny you this when after all you've done for him, _will_ do for him?

And you can't help yourself--a small, shocked yelp you can't hold back fast enough when his hand engulfs one breast, squeezing, letting it fit and cradle against his palm. This is where the patience thins, his hands a little rougher now, yanking your bra upwards to rest above your breasts, and his expression only deepens. Really, you can't believe the man can even _deny_ he'd been so bewitched by your naked chest at all by the way he's making sure his hands are only ever in constant contact with them.

And you really do moan out breathlessly, gasping his name, a hand reaching to grip and claw at one of his forearms when he cups them both. John is warm, _too_ warm if anything, his thumbs sweeping against the hardened buds of your nipples as his breath catches in his throat. Feels the way your breasts press up into his eager palms fondling you, your back arching from the table at the blistering sensation, and nothing can stop him--he leans down, though you take no notice, and suckles a nipple into his hot mouth without word or warning.

Your shut eyes are now wide, leaning up with a heady pant; he noisily sucks at it _hard_ , letting the sensitive bud roll against his eager, lapping tongue. He pulls his head back, and you whimper when your nipple pops from his lips, hardened now as he gazes at it with wonder and pride. Wetness soaks into the fabric of your underwear when his gaze reaches upwards, the corner of his lips tilting upwards when his tongue laps at your neglected one, beard scratching against your sensitive flesh as he presses his face in. He sucks at it again, a hand reaching up to cup it, and your nails are leaving deep grooves into his wrist there, legs squirming where he's more or less leaning on top of you now.

He spends more time than he should be there, and frankly you let him. It feels so fucking _good_ ; every detail he lays there, the burn of his facial hair against the soft flesh, the rough yet even breaths through his nose. The way his lashes fall forward from this angle beneath you, sucking at your breast in an eagerness you've known him to be. John takes his time, alternating between long licks and short kisses to soothe the bruise you know is already forming there, his breath hot against your nipple. 

A brief, wet peck touches between your breasts and you inhale; both hands are there now, grasping the supple flesh together as he buries his face between them, your eyes half-lidded. You can't see what he's doing but you most definitely _feel_ it, that sensation shooting to the base of your neck when you feel his teeth lightly clamp down against the hardened bud. He pulls his head back slowly, not far, enough so that you can feel that soft stinging coming forth until he gets what he wants--your whimper, until he finally releases the swollen bud from his mouth.

John is so absorbed, so drugged on this long-consuming touch of his skin against yours that he doesn't quite make out your voice at first when one of his fingers begins pressing beneath the band of your underwear.

He hears it though--faded almost, but clearing like fog lights into his misty senses, his gaze snapping to your lips first, your face to make out your words.

And you're trembling still, quiet and soft but so wet, repeating yourself and his lust-filled eyes.

John hears the pitch of your voice, how far gone you are just as he is. "I haven't… I've never done this…"

He can't seem to find the words at first, his fingers paused in their tracks before as he's trying to think of the verses in his fuzzy, aroused mind. It comes to him after he blinks, out of focus for only but a moment until it dawns on him in its naked entirety.

What is there about him that should surprise you? Of _course_ his eyes suddenly light up, lips twitching and he's flashing you those teeth again, and if anything, your words only serve to further turn him _on_ now that he knows the truth. Your cheeks are hot, thighs clamped around his body as you await his further instruction without another word.

You both are panting hard, drunk on each other's warmth, buzzed like it's too early for daytime drinking. And he suddenly pulls back again, his hands against your knees just like all those months ago, eyeing between your spread legs.

You know he sees it. You still feel the embarrassment anyways, blinking up at the ceiling as he stares for far too long, can probably see the wetness seeping there. And he looks so _pleased_ with himself, thinking of his plan, the rubbing of his thumbs into your skin driving your sensitive nerves on end.

Finally, he seems to come to one. And, to your shock, it doesn't involve him touching you at all--his hand waiting patiently at your underwear reaches instead for one of yours, guiding it against your belly. And your furrowed brows are all he can see, expression nothing but perplexed, until you feel your fingers gracing against the hem of your waistband.

Oh. _Oh._

John pulls himself away, dragging his chair back to sit on like this is all something for him to observe and merrily watch in delight. You almost hate the way he leans back, smiling smugly to himself as he patiently waits for your move, instructing you if it hasn't sunk in yet.

He licks his lips, palming the front of his jeans, order simple and ragged: "Touch yourself."

He wants to see how you want it, you realize, face burning in what could mistakenly be shame at first. But it isn't--not when you watch his face, his expression as he's fixed, hooked on your fingers resting inches from where he wants to see them slipping into. It's arousing to him see him like this on edge, testing his patience. Arousing to know that he's going to be your first, that he's more or less _priding_ himself in that indulging knowledge, as if it were some forbidden fruit from the garden's themselves.

And, really. It's fucking _hot_.

Almost shyly you begin to slip your fingers where your clit rests against the thin fabric, heels of your feet against the edge of the table and secure, and John's eyes are locked in the moment you set to work. His breath stalls, your middle finger starting a slow, torturous circle that ebbs the aching pleasure you both long for. 

It's difficult at first, touching yourself--you've never done it in front of anyone before, much less in _clear view_ as you are now. But you must be doing something right, confidence stroked when John's infatuated stare is followed by an audible swallow, his smirk gone.

You let out an airy gasp, sweat dewy against your skin when those circles tighten. And it's too much but at the same time not entirely _enough_ \--you need more, the contact not complete no matter how hard, how fast your fingers toy with your clit. You dip your finger down to confirm that wetness there, still warm and still collecting, husky breaths picking up as you can't help yourself now. You yank your underwear aside, sighing aloud as your fingers slide between your wet folds, your toes curling.

Eyes squeezed shut, you can feel every little detail: the pebbled hardness of your nipples as your eager clit now strains against the heel of your palm, dipping every once and again into where you've imagined more times than you care to count of John's cock plunging into. You imitate it, fantasize it--how he would start slow, your hips lifting, meeting your every thrust. They deepen, your finger hitting nothing but knuckle as you choke on a whimper because, _god, yes, you want him, you **need** him to fuck you like this._ Only he can do this for you, only him, only John can--

 _John_. Your eyes crack open midway, two fingers inside of your heat and eagerly thrusting in tandem, the wet sound of it awakening you momentarily as your eyes return back to his face. 

You swallow, clenching around your soaked finger. And the look of pure unbidden _arousal_ on his expression is unmistakable.

It takes you another second to realize that the tacky belt buckle of his isn't where it should be, but maybe it's right where it should belong--unbuckled, the button of his jeans undone, the zipper down. Your fingers pause, your own walls clenching down against them when you notice that you aren't the only lone wolf in this kitchen. John doesn't seem to notice your staring, his eyes too captivated on your fingers pleasuring yourself to tell. 

And you're in the same boat--watching, infatuated, as that tattooed hand strokes against his cock, letting himself hang between bouts of pleasure and torture, tight squeezes and altogether pauses. You watch, mouth dry, as his thumb sweeps over the head of his length, spreading the sticky wetness gathering there and thrusting into his grip when you pull your fingers back in a particularly deep plunge.

It turns out that he isn't the only one to be caught staring, those blue eyes ridiculously dark when you look to his face. As if he is filled with nothing but you, wants nothing _but_ to fill you, his tucked shirt pulled free from his jeans. And when your gazes meet it's almost _too_ much for you at all, but you hold your own--from either the lust, the unbearable want, the fact that you can't be ashamed about any of this anymore.

You aren't the only one and that _patience_ he's been working on is running out. You pull your fingers free, but he leans forward, and your throat catches before you can tell him to stop.

" _Oh._ " 

Your face burns, it _hurts_ in such a good way, your belly tightening, thighs going through spasms. You squirm so much that John has to wrap his arms around your thighs to keep you still, hugging them to his shoulders and you're _whining_ out his name when the warmth of his face, the roughness of his beard, the hotness of his lips is suddenly sucking against your clit.

You grasp uselessly against the table, nails clawing into the surface, your chest breathing too quickly to be normal--John's _moaning_ against your sex, tongue lapping, eagerly dipping inside of you and you can't be stopped. 

Your fingers entwine into his neat and slicked hair, now undoing its perfection as you tug at his scalp at the roots. Doing so doesn't get him to pull back at all, the pain only spurring him--if anything it pushes him _down_ , to be more fervent and eager to suck and lap against your wetness seeping into his waiting tongue.

That twisting feeling in your loins, this unmistakable desire to be tipped into that precarious edge that only he can take you through. You don't understand what you're doing to him, letting every small, airy gasp and sigh escape you--it shoots straight to his cock, wanting you so badly, wanting to hear you beg for him and let him be the one as your first. The thought of it drives him mad, his tongue prodding, abusing against your swollen clit until your fingers in his hair, your gasping, high-pitched gasps are tell-tale signs that you can't hold on for him any longer.

John would think with your head so scrambled, so doped on this overload of pleasure you wouldn't be able to fathom the words. But you do, and his eyes stare past your heaving breasts, your half-lidded eyes, your pleasure-furrowed brows. You're going to come, he's going to _make_ you come, _god_ you can't stop the trembling, the quaking in your thighs. 

He makes sure your shuddering legs remain on his shoulder, his free hand reaching for your folds, and your eyes nearly roll back--two of his fingers are _just enough_ , thicker than yours, stretching and just fucking _perfect_ inside of you. The combination of his tongue at your clit, those rumbling moans he gives out, the scratching of his facial hair, the hurried plunging of his fingers and that's it, _that's it right there, please, **please** \--_

The searing hotness convulses deep in your lower belly, inhaling every harsh, high-pitched breath your greedy lungs can take. And John is still _going_ , you can hear his quiet _yes, yes!_ as you come against him, your walls tightening around his tattooed fingers as the pads of his index and middle plunge eagerly against that prominent softness that makes your thighs clamp harder. 

Your nerves are buzzing, waiting for the aftershocks to subside, your muscles suddenly growing fragile and lax, eyelids tired yet so, so fulfilled. Weakly you fall back against the table, suddenly aware of how sweaty you are, how cool the air swiftly seems when your twitching, sensitive thighs are still perched on John's shoulders. He's still there, tongue lapping at your oversensitive clit to the point where it's almost painful, your whimper heard to him as you yank at his hair to stop.

Finally, he pulls back. Taking in deep breaths, suddenly coming to stand and lean back against you. Your clouded gaze is filled with him, how he leans down to study you, teeth flashing in that pleased grin of his. Tiredly you reach up, thumb swiping against the wetness left there on his lips, his hand stopping you from moving any further to pull away. He isn't finished yet, lips and tongue lapping against the taste of you there, as if he hasn't gotten enough of it.

With a shy laugh, you notice the touch of his length resting eagerly against your lower belly. Hot and hard and enthusiastic to be touched by you, your tongue licking your lips as John leans down for another open-mouthed kiss.

All you need is a moment. You want to return the favor, to make him feel as good as he did for you, and that's the truth. You move your hand, eager, ready to stroke him and to let him crumble beneath you when a sound startles you both from your heady trance.

The heart-skipping quake of his phone's vibrations shake the table so hard you both pull away, alarmed by the blaring ringtone. You stare at it, buzzing and interrupting and most of all _cockblocking_ , reading the caller ID on the light up with more frustration than you'd ever care to admit having.

"John," you warn him warily when he begins to kiss against the side of your face, your neck, trying to ignore the call. But you can't. It's not right-- _he_ would know. "John, it's your brother."

Your fingers grip into his silk shirt, tugging at him a little harder than necessary--he's desperate, he _needs_ this but can't. "John, it's _Joseph_ , you have to answer it."

This finally seems to grind his gears--he belts out a frustrated snarl, not at you but at the fact that _his own brother_ would choose now out of all times to fucking interrupt him. To kill the mood, John's eyes watching as you smile weakly up at him despite your nakedness. 

He knows what happens if Joseph calls. It means he won't be able to stay long at home, that Joseph needs something to be done and it'll take potentially _all day_ for that to be seen and finished. Neither of you, John frustratingly reasons, will get anything else done today with Joseph in his hair.

Finally, after the seventh ignored pulse John snatches the phone from the table, clearing his throat free from the post-coital buzz.

Quietly, gently you push him back, shakily standing upright on both feet, his arm coming around to help you. He does it out of courtesy, certainly, but you know him pressing you to him lets that aching friction of his cock against your skin just mitigate even for a moment--to let him have that taste as you lean up to peck his lips, leaving him to the conversation with Joseph as he's suddenly forced to use his business voice.

John watches you the entire time after reluctantly tucking himself back into his jeans to take care of later, drinking in how you readjust your underwear from where it's been pulled aside. How you yank down your bra back over the small bruises forming on your breasts, finally letting your shirt back down to your hips. 

And, really, despite all of this you still look like a mess--like you hadn't just been given oral on his kitchen table, suddenly aware of the broken glass and sweet tea soaking into the letters, paperwork, and books he'd shoved aside.

You glance over to him just as he's running a hand through his hair, smoothing down where you'd pulled the slicked style apart from your pleasure. With a sheepish look you turn the other way, light on your shaking legs as you return back upstairs to shower.

Frankly, it's good that you did decide on the contingency plan, if only for the unexpected visit from Jacob. Like how he'd walked through the front door and was immediately greeted with the sight of John's newly added masterpiece above the mantle, standing there for a good ten minutes stroking his beard in perplexed contemplation. 

Or when John had finally greeted him to come further into the home, Jacob asking for your whereabouts, noticing that something just seemed… _off_.

"You guys get into a fight?" is Jacob's reasonable, but wrong, assumption. 

John doesn't offer him to take a seat--he's his brother, he doesn't have to. But Jacob doesn't want to, yet, either.

"Why would we?" John poses, reaching for his multitude of keys from the dish on the island.

The redheaded Seed shrugs, stepping past the shattered glass and spilled tea on the floorboards. "Oh, I don't know. The mess probably."

"It's nothing, stop worrying about it."

"You guys were arguing about something, weren't you?" He clucks his tongue. "Mmm, I thought you two were supposed to play nice."

Now John's just downright _annoyed_ , pocketing his phone and reaching to shrug on his coat. "We were doing _nothing_ , now _drop_ it--"

"Is that your vest on the floor?" Jacob toes at it curiously, where the article is usually prim and proper elsewhere. "Did you take it off in a fit of _rage?_ "

It's lucky you intervene when you do, ruffling your wet hair between a towel and dressed properly this time. Jacob doesn't pursue the deliberate teasing any further, you both turning into familiar and friendly conversation whilst oblivious to the broiling annoyance of John in the background. 

There's that easygoing and slow-pace nature that follows; if you'd finished yesterday's crossword yet so Jacob could compare, and other things to poke fun at John for--like the fact that the Whitetail Mountains would always be open to you if the valley wasn't as exciting enough for the unusual domestic life you're leading here.

"Should get to practicing again," Jacob says to you, in a tone that both reminds and admonishes John for keeping you under lockdown. "Keep those skills sharp. Can't expect us to protect you if the time comes. And you're always at John's side, anyways."

John never saw a real purpose for you to have one, but the issue at hand is relevant now more so than ever. Your state of capture all those weeks ago. Even before that, what feels like more than just months in that bloody church. The lack of trust has now metamorphosed into basic need--something can and _will_ happen, and John can't expect you to rely on divine intervention and pure luck for long.

"He's right," John agrees, coming between you and his brother. "For a while the resistance assumed the worst. But people are talking again--what had happened back in the mountains."

 _Deputy resurrected from the fucking dead._ Yeah, you'd seen a lot of the columns while working on the daily crossword, looking between the brothers for further instruction.

Jacob is the first one to move, presenting before you the first step. "Some of them know. And some of them don't like what they hear about you."

You see the holster he produces for you--a chest rig that fastens to your front, in plain sight unlike the one the redheaded Seed has at his thigh. It isn't subtle at all--it's a statement, a _loud_ one, a warning that cautions _think before you come any closer_. People had been fearless to act only because neither of you had been rightly armed for the occasions--now, is your assumption, the same people will be deterred from acting on it twice.

John is there to help, aiding you in fastening the chest holster correctly and snapping on the buckles. With the right readjustments it fits snugly, this strange déjà vu of your police academy days long in the making. You haven't held up a gun to kill with your own hands since that day you'd decided you would have died for John. And now that same man is before you, studying your wondering expression, the holster empty between you.

"And some of them," John continues, reaching for his waistband at his back behind his coat, "want to make sure there's nothing _left_ to hear about you."

The magnum he pulls free, a large caliber from just first glance alone, flourishes in his grip. Without further debate John fits it snugly into the holster, the grip faced and angled in such a way that allows you to make for quick hands and even quicker work. It's one from his own personal collection, too big for him to rightly carry around on his own but one he believes is perfect for you.

John's smile is pleasant as can be, guiding your hand to the grip of the magnum, that tone of his almost behaving as some brittle warning for those to carve your path. "But you won't let that happen, will you?"

Is it strange that it's not _you_ that you're so worried about? For a long time, you'd always felt it'd been the other way around--but the rules of the game have changed, maybe more so that the key to getting to John was by getting to _you_ first. It'd been the same way since this had all began, with you hell bent on that same key that dangles between John's unbuttoned shirt, pressed against the _sloth_ still scarred there.

You send John a bemused look. "I don't think it's killing me they should be worried about."

"I'm gonna interrupt you both before a _moment_ thing happens," Jacob intercepts, and you almost _laugh_ at the look of genuine irritation that crosses John's expression at that remark because _it's true_. "There's been a change of plans. Joseph gave me word he wants the dinner moved up on the time table _by tonight_."

You're not laughing anymore, sharing a subdued look with Jacob. As to be expected, the ire in the dark-haired man beside you is the first to voice his opinion--and, as usual, he's none too pleased by these events. It makes sense, you try to reason; Joseph _had_ called earlier. And if any of this is due to another one of his _visions_ then, well--hey, you wish _you_ could call in a foreseeable vacation with pay when you'd been back at the precinct.

This time it's you who interrupts John. "We'll be there then. At the same time?"

"At the same time."

"Great," you reply, feeling your own indignation grow with John's disconcerted self at your side and literally radiating it in droves. "This is great. I don't suppose dress code is an appropriate question?"

You don't like the way Jacob scratches at his beard, this itchy sound as he lets out a little scoff. "Hah, funny you should mention that…"

Look, _Mr. Prophet_ walking around sans shirt every other time you meet him is funny. The fact that he probably stole his Michael Kors vest from John's closet and never washes it, hence why John never wants it back, is funny. If the dress code was sans pants all the way through, _fine, it'd be pretty funny_.

You hate the way you have to ask, because now it means that you're all here to please the man in charge of this entire reunion. "But… what?"

A few hours later and you have your answer. 

Not an answer that you rightly feel comfortable with, but an answer nonetheless. 

One that leaves you standing here in front of John's floor mirror, observing yourself, studying the fine lines and details that you're left to summarize. You've softened from your police training, muscles less defined. You make a note to change that soon now that you have a means of protection and John's lost the monitor from your ankle. The obvious growth of your hair, a reminder for you to trim that into proper order. The strange, pink scars of bullets long past. The bruises from earlier against your clothed breasts, _wrath_ stark and clear below your collar.

The belt that holds snugly against your black slacks is a simple buckle--a familiar buckle, just as are the perfectly sized boots. The olive drab button up that compliments the outfit is wrinkling the longer you clench at it between your fingers, still fascinated, mind running every contingency possible. 

You don't want to laugh because Jacob had mentioned it'd been funny. You want to laugh because everything you'd been told up to this moment had been long in the making, a timer ticking down at just the precise moment to let you know it's your spell. 

_Does the police recruit change the department and culture, or does the department and culture change the recruit?_

It's the same way as the uniform: the moment it's back on you, on your changed self, unclean and no longer that shining, righteous beacon you'd been sworn in, had smiled that day your picture had been taken for your ID--you hadn't been able to change _a thing_.

All you need is the uniform to _humble_ you, _remind_ you of your place in retrospect. Of your place in all of this, never within, an outsider again and again. You're special because _the Baptist_ makes it so. Special because Jacob's favorite judge enjoys your pets, because Faith is always ready to sew you together a crown of flowers for your every visit. 

But it's the word of the Father, you come to a conclusion, that is final. And his intentions are some semblance of modesty, for _you_ to be modest of your stay here, of _why_ you are still here. You may have burned your uniform in that blazing pyre, had watched the freshly sewn tag of your surname and identity scorch to nothing but ash. Folks had still called you _deputy_ and _rookie_ and _officer_ even after, but even you haven't realized how caught up in this identity crisis you are.

 _I'm Rook,_ you tell yourself, knuckles aching, twisting the green fabric. _Nothing before. And nothing else in the future to come._

The sound of the door squeaking open turns your attention in the mirror to its movement, John already in his coat and aviators. His mouth is open partway and is evident that he's probably about to ask if you're ready to go, but thinks better of it when he sees that you haven't even put your shirt on.

Slowly he enters the room, knowing that it's better to say nothing at all. You watch him but not his face, only his hands, the way his chest brushes against your naked back. A part of you still aches for him, that you'd been so close to fucking him, and like some divine intervention Joseph's here to ensure that it doesn't happen.

It takes you another second to realize John's gently prying your raw fingers from your shirt. You let him take it, his breath soft against your shoulder, guiding your hand through one of the sleeves. He helps you through the other like you're putting on a suit of armor for some ages-old crusade you're not sure you'll ever be prepared for, his hands turning you to face him, so he can work on your buttons. 

Everything is performed in silence, your eyes reading the grooves carved into his chest over and over again, as if each passing you will learn something new. Even when his fingers slip to tuck your shirt into the waistband of your slacks you don't seem to budge, John moving again but not for long, his hands reaching for your own. You feel that familiar softness working around your fingers--the lining of those leather gloves, _they were able to find a pair of your favorite gloves_. 

Finally, you seem to come to, flexing your fingers, gazing down upon those covered hands again. The sleeves of your shirt are down, meeting the gloves this time. And the sins? The sins are hidden once again, and when you glance at the mirror you almost resemble that _deputy_ , that _officer_ , that _rookie_. The patches are sewn there on each side of your shoulders, proudly representing Hope County once more.

But something is missing. John is there to remind you.

He brandishes the last centerpiece, not some diamond jewel or memento of the liking. Those blue eyes hover over what he's discovered is your surname deliberately sewn over the tag of your right breast pocket, your hands reaching gently to take the gleaming, newly minted badge from his hands.

The star shimmers in the setting light of the room when you ponder it here and there, before finally reaching down to snap the pin against your left breast.

A final item is included--the holster and magnum that are now completely strapped and secured to your chest after a final tug at the clasps. Yet something you can't place your finger on sparks when you meet John's gaze, his posture set with his arms behind his back, as if appraising you. Those blue eyes softer than usual, his feet standing apart, drinking in this flashback of a time that seems ages ago. Inside of a dark church, riding upon the white horse, cuffs in your hands. The eyes of many, of Joseph, Jacob, Faith. 

Yes, there it is, that itch that needs to be scratched--with John stepping forward behind his preaching brother, his eyes upon you, standing the same way he's doing so now.

You think back to what you'd told Joseph that day. That you shouldn't have complied with the arrest, that some things are better left well alone indeed.

And right now, staring into those inquiring, wondering, and bright blue eyes, you take every word you'd said then back. Cuffing Joseph, to some miracle, had been one of the wisest decisions you'd made, even if it was at the goading and respect for chain of command. You'd remember, then, meeting John's eyes for the first time in that dark church, curious to one another, yet unknowing of how far it would come.

In his mind, you believe from his expression alone, he must be thinking the same thing.

"Ready?" you pose to him one last time, holding your hand out for him to take.

His palm is warm against your glove, nodding.

"Let's go."

 

 

The arrangement is set out in wide range of open acre, modest in its appearance. You understand without being told that John's had a part in this--as usual, his seemingly endless and unlimited funds appear to sprout out of thin air. The car drive had been pleasant if there are any silver linings to be made, John at the helm of the wheel this time, and you're convinced he's only making conversation if only to mitigate the impeding drive to your potential doom.

You're sure Joseph had an enormous part in how he wanted the decorations placed, but the moment you see the red carpet and white trellises you can't help but massage your temple free from that growing ache. _John being extra, as per usual. Why aren't you even surprised?_

From the looks of it neither of you are early at all, if anything _late_ ; a cultist already approaches your pickup and has the door opened for you, redirecting you both through the flower-woven trellis to the gathering's entrance. Speakers are generously placed around the locale, spouting music that, frankly, makes you snort out a laugh at the thought of Sharky's childish disgust that you'd admitted _hey, it's pretty catchy_ much to his horror that _you know **every** word to 'Oh, John'?! You fucking would!_

John gives you one of his strange looks while he waits for you to catch up at the archways, peeling in at his heels. It's the first _major_ moment you've experienced outside of the regulars who patrol the ranch--and, as always, you're reminded by just how _popular_ John is with his most devoted followers. You don't mind being the background noise, honestly--watching his energy exude with every interaction is enough for you. Moments where he turns to make sure you're still there with him, his hand reaching for the small of your back so he won't lose you through the crowds.

There's another point where you're both at a standstill, John speaking animatedly in some conversation you can't help but tune out. Other interests have you--like looking for Jacob and Faith around the clustered tables, wondering how the security detail will hold against a potential strafing run from the open air, any clear gaps that someone could wedge through. Joseph is _not_ a dude too worried about the potential of an assassination, seriously--even you're a little on edge about how easily someone could slip in, find an opening, the classic smoke and mirrors--

You're so enamored with the little details about anyone coming in to snap someone's neck that you're suddenly fluttering your eyelids when John turns your way to lean down, pleasantly pecking your cheek. He motions for you to continue on walking further into the gathering, palm against your back, but not before he shoots a grin over his shoulder one last time.

"That was for me, not for your camera."

You double-take over your shoulder and-- _yeah, okay, he was just getting interviewed on live broadcast, yep. Smooth. Good save, Rook._

You don't have time to ponder that for long, as someone's quick to flank your side when you reach the crowd of tables. A lace of daisies and little mountain flowers crown the light streaks of brown in her hair, her hands already reaching to hold yours, and her smile is angelic, pure.

"Faith," you call out to her in surprise, halting in place now that she's directly in front of you. "Enjoying yourself?"

John pauses as well, your arms coming to bring her into an embrace that she wholly accepts without missing a beat--the traces of wispy Bliss against the flowers in her hair makes you dizzy, but she gratefully pulls away just as soon, grasping your hands again.

And she's glad to see you, truthfully, her eyes say it all--but there's something in her gaze that you can't help but lean a little closer to, wondering why her grip is a little more firm than usual, her teeth pearly and grinning despite the simple small talk of your conversation. John's body comes into closer view of your flank, hands behind his back, as if to privatize and isolate the conversation from prying eyes.

Her smile doesn't drop. There is something stranger, deeper about it as she leans in, whispering to you, "He's watching you. He's _been_ watching you, every move you've made, ever since you first arrived here."

Is that why your intuitive gut feeling had been sent into overdrive? Not some reasonable paranoia of getting shelled from above, of some sniper hiding out in the thick foliage yards away, but because of the Father's careful panoptic eye? No, it's not someone from outside you should be worried about infiltrating these ranks. It's been one of your own, this careful surveillance, the last yet foremost person you should have been expecting.

It's the same reason why Faith seems so overtly pleased by your presence, but it's those gentle eyes of hers that warn you-- _be careful. Be careful of what you say, what you do. He's out here to get you._

You glance over to John whose mood seems to match with this premonition, Faith's fingers squeezing against the leather gloves of yours. You nod, finally, letting that advice sink in. Someone has eyes on you but so do others--you watch as she pulls a budding jimsonweed from her crown and tucks it into the pocket below your name tag, kissing her fingertips and placing them there one final time.

"He may be… but so are we. And we'll vouch for you, Rook. Don't be afraid."

She walks barefoot, gliding away, the lace of her dress light against your own fingers. The summer night is cooler, candles lit for the occasion, ivory Datura bunches decorating the gathering. Murmurs of laughter, singing, bleached lamplights and conversations that seem to fade and weave as much a stream would through the mountains.

You can feel John's eyes studying your profile, the touch of his grasp against your leather glove. He lifts it to his lips, beard trimmed and following the rest of his carefully manicured self for the occasion, pressing a kiss to the back of your knuckles. Only then do you turn to him, shooting him just the grace of a smile.

With that same hand you cup his cheek, meeting those baby blue eyes that, even in this darkness, only serves to compliment the color of them. The pad of your thumb trails against his lower lip, taking in the way his teeth catch onto it when you dip too close, and you give him a breathy chuckle.

"Let's go find your big brother," you offer him, taking his hand in yours. "He's gonna clean up the plate of ribs and I want some before he does. Come on!"

The eldest Seed is indeed found slaving away on his platter. He looks up in the midst of chomping down on a rib you might just have to lift the next time he looks the other way, shooting you one of those handsome grins despite a streak of sauce lining his cheek.

He uses the rib in his hand to point at you, motioning for you to take a seat beside him. "Well, well. I didn't know we had a Rick Grimes patrolling Hope County again."

You make a face out of play and you're sure John's following suit. "Shut up, you have a mouth full of food."

"Want some?"

It takes a full rack and a plethora of wet-naps later for you three to finally sink in. John and Jacob chatting over nothing in particular, some inside joke that you're sure is only possible and shared between them. You pick some spare rib meat off from a bone and bait it beneath the table when Jacob looks the other way, feeling the warm, lapping tongue of one of his judge's gnawing at the seasoned meat between your fingers and licking at them clean.

John's boot taps against yours, his arms crossed as he gives you a shake of his head at your sheepish shrug.

The night is all around pleasant again, with Jacob poking fun that he has a pack of stouts in the back of his car that he wouldn't mind pairing with the food. This earns possibly the tenth look John serves Jacob in the same night, then for you _both_ when you shrug again and wouldn't mind something else besides _water_ to down the holy barbeque food with. And despite these laughs, Jacob's eyes scan the perimeter, chuckling a little still before keeping his composure.

You already know, wiping your hands off with another wet-nap, as John's hand reaches comfortingly against your thigh.

You keep your eyes ahead, fully cognizant of where Joseph's long table is set and flourished with a white sheet of wispy covering. Few of his followers crowd here--you would think that his family would be posted there, but you imagine the casual scale of this gathering doesn't require them to be together so soon.

"Staring again?" you pose the simple question, reaching down to trace the tattoos against John's hand.

Jacob hums in confirmation as John nods, sipping at his water. "For a while. I think you should get you up there as soon as you can, get this over with."

"Just me?" 

"I'll be there with you," he remarks, squeezing your thigh in reassuring warmth. "Come on."

"So will we," Jacob adds, motioning with a nod to get a move on as you and John rise to stand. "Go on ahead."

The path to Joseph's supper table feels even lengthier than it should be--the pushing through the dancing crowds, the choir singing upon those echoing speakers long into the evening, crying out _The World Is Gonna End Tonight_ , yet folks will choose to dance regardless if the truth is present or not. You feel John's protecting presence at your back, of Faith's watchful counter, of Jacob's observing words. This game of chess moves across the tiles, this rook and bishop in tandem, this queen and knight in the other.

You see the king at the end of it in the clearing before the table, Eden's Gate of the American flag laid against the pure white cloth, and Joseph standing against the steps leading up to it. He is ever patient, face unreadable, as you and John come before him. John is the first to step up, Joseph's palm clasping against the back of John's skull, leaning into his forehead. 

The expectation of your turn is a puzzling shift of events, and by John's perplexed gaze he assumes the same--until Joseph offers you nothing of the similar sort, only his rosary-wrapped palm opened upwards.

"Leave us, will you, John?" is Joseph's true command, unblinking, that familiar stare crawling up your spine. Eyes up, chin tilted down behind those blonde glasses. _Don't be afraid. Don't ever be afraid_. "The deputy and I need to share our sermons."

John visibly hesitates, meeting your eyes until you nod for him that you'll be alright. Joseph misses none of the exchange.

He leads you to the table where an array of his books, guns, bullet casings, and plates of food are presented in some artistic Renaissance inspiration. Your seat might as well have your name on it; when he sinks back into his own, you realize you're exactly where you should belong--to his right but everyone else's left.

From here you see what he sees. The string of lights and flowers that decorate the gathering, of the pleased and shared smiles of its followers. The backdrop of dark mountains and the nightfall, stars guiding moonlight through that dark ocean of sky. You see a peaceful Montana, a beautiful, rich Montana with bountiful earth and its cultivators. And yet you sense Joseph's premonition, his vision of this future wiped clean from its irradiated soil. You see the people he has murdered, coerced, kidnapped against their will. 

You see the burdens of this following, an outsider viewing from within, but you have no tinted glasses to shame your view of the reality.

Joseph tilts his neck back, fingers threaded over his stomach. 

"One of the Pharisees asked him to eat with him, and he went into the Pharisee's house and reclined at the table," he begins, eyes closed. "And behold, a woman of the city, who was a sinner, when she learned that he was reclining at the table in the Pharisee's house, brought an alabaster flask of ointment, and standing behind him at his feet, weeping, she began to wet his feet with her tears and wiped them with the hair of her head and kissed his feet and anointed them with the ointment."

The words wash over you, like the moon itself is pulling the tide stronger, harder above your head. Your breaths, your sighs, reaching to choke the life from you in smothering, crashing waves. You watch Joseph, watch the words pour and form itself into the sea that wishes to drown you, your back steeled and rigid.

"Now when the Pharisee who had invited him saw this, he said to himself, 'If this man were a prophet, he would have known who and what sort of woman this is who is touching him,'" Joseph continues, his eyes opening to you now. 

Those dark irises are cloudy behind his golden shades. "For she… is a sinner."

You know this. Perhaps you still are, perhaps this entirety of atonement had been all for naught. You think of John on his knees for you, that gaze full of nothing but the utmost reverence for you and your eternal mercy upon this blessed union, even though he knows well that he doesn't deserve it.

Mary Magdalene was forgiven for her sins based upon her faithful devotion. But you're not entirely sure if _you_ should be.

Joseph studies you, ponders you like you're this indiscernible puzzle that lives, breathes, loves his little brother, yet is ever shifting. This puzzle he can't seem to fit together rightly in God's plan, the meddlesome little piece where he thinks should belong but doesn't.

"These visions I have of you," Joseph admits, mouth a thin line. His fingers steeple together. "I have heard the whisper of God at my ear. To foresee the devotion of my brother set back on its righteous path, his sin to be forgiven, his faith unshakeable. I know he can be. I know he has."

And, like his words are spears, he thrusts them into your heart, blue eyes indescribable, fleetingly lethal. "Not to me, but to _you._ "

He speaks softly and harsh, like some predator lurking in the tall grass of the plains. Yet it is so eerily silent after the accusation here compared to the dancing, the singing, the laughter. You remember Faith's words, smelting them down and reshaping it into a tool of unbreakable iron. Of John's lips against your knuckles, of Jacob's watchful gaze, building their shields as walls and your faith as a sword.

You smile, neither confessing nor denying, pulling a page out of John's _read the fine print_ argument: "You never specified who."

He is never truthfully hateful, full of rage, and he isn't going to start now. You see this image for what it is--a prophet whose flock gathers questionable loyalty, where its strength is dubious and no longer physically conceivable. Where he himself needs validation, and through the eyes of the one responsible for judging his brother.

Joseph grips his fist so tightly you can see the cord of his rosary cut into his flesh. "The vision. What I once saw as the rider, only a screen of smoke. I saw the sinner for what she was, for what _you_ are. _Do not cling to me, for I have not yet ascended to the Father; but go to my brothers and say to them, 'I am ascending to my Father and your Father, to my God and your God.'_ "

You still remember the words. Every divine intervention, every step and belief that's led you to be here, sitting beside him. He sees two indefinable figures melded into one--a sinner that is yet to be forgiven, and a virginal woman who is the mother and he the child.

Your eyes widen, taken aback as you both stare at one another. And yet you have no visions--you do not dream the same way he does, with no God whispering in your ear, only this gut intuition that has guided you thus far into safety. Like the magnetic pull of a compass north, directed by unforeseeable paths. Every death you should have deserved was only one more step forward, this epiphany and stalemate of immovable purgatory.

 _God won't let you take me_ , Joseph had told you when you'd tried to do so. And, here and now, you feel you can say the same to him: _and God won't let me take you._

You can't kill him. And he can't kill you.

"You understand now," Joseph claims, voice almost light, detached. "You understand that neither of us asked to be chosen."

He is the visionary, the map bearer of this world, and you its metaphorical compass to guide it.

Yet he still does not seem entirely pleased by this, as if taking you out to pasture had truly been an option in the long-term. You know what they do to Faith's kind--you know she isn't the only one. You know what Joseph has done to her, will plan on doing to her if her devotion is anywhere near rattled like John's. Like Jacob's.

You find it strange that the man most devoted has a family that could care even less. But they are his family, his roots, the reason that, for anything else, he stays at all.

"Why does it matter?" you begin. "You have a good plan with the right intentions, all with the wrong execution. You told John once, didn't you? You have to _love them?_ "

Joseph is quiet, weighing your words, from prophet to prophet.

"They would do anything for you," you continue, leaning back against your chair, surveying the crowd. "And most of all they would _die_ for you. Isn't that devotion enough? Lines need to be drawn, we can't expect everyone to be saved. You take away people's autonomy, you take away their trust. You take away their devotion."

And it's the truth you know. You've seen it happen right before your eyes, have been changed by police culture and the department to recognize it. 

You offer Joseph your last piece of advice. "It's easy to write policies down on paper. But when I was working on the force, it's trial and error, make or break. Put into practice, some things work, and others don't. You only find out the hard way, because there _is_ no easy one."

His eyes are half-lidded, stormy, but open to possibility. Here, out in reality, there must be room on his throne for more than one.

"You're saying we can't save everyone," he claims, as if that option isn't the most plausible one.

"I'm saying not everyone wants to _be_ saved," you clarify, thinking of your own friends. 

Of the folks you know at Fall's End, who must be praying for your safety, mourning your collapse and the loss of the one true wing that was able to lift the resistance by its boot straps. You think of Nick and Kim with your goddaughter, the flaying of his sin-inked skin and stapled to the church walls. Of Grace's utmost displeasure, her dead shot speaking for her. Jess's ravenous terror, how she in turn has used that hate to fuel her revenge, had felt nothing then, yet still presses on to fight. Even Sharky, Hurk, and Adelaide have found their own gripes despite their goading.

"We shouldn't have to pick and choose who gets to live and who doesn't. But if you want people to join up, you have to at least give them the choice. Let them walk away or let them stay. You need to base your legitimacy, or you'll have none to show."

Joseph seems wounded by this, offset by the sad smile he carries. You would be too, hearing that voice in your head. Being told one thing only to misunderstand it, to try again and again to please it but the rules always change.

His eyes lift upwards, gazing at the gleaming badge hanging on your chest. Your sewn name, a name you're not sure has any use anymore to anyone but those wearing the blue. You have changed his brothers in ways unthinkable to Joseph, and for the better you hope. These people are not good. Try as they might, they may never be. Irredeemable and incurable, but they can still do right.

And that's why you're here in the uniform, this marking of shame now worn as pride to them. You aren't here to be reminded of your place. You're here because you're reminded of what you should stand for, this social service, this giving figure, the one people call in their times of need. Perhaps you have never truly given up the badge. It lay waiting, hidden in the soil, cultivated with such gentle care to grow its roots properly and green.

You call Joseph's name, his attention refocused back on you.

"May I leave?" you ask him out of courtesy. 

You see John, Jacob, and Faith seated together at a table to the side, John's eyes reaching yours like this magnetic reaction. He goes to stand without a word needing to be exchanged, and this collects the attention of both Jacob and Faith as well.

Joseph nods, feeling you rise to stand. Just as you go to push in your seat to leave something grasps your wrist, an action meant to stop you. You pause, following the rolled-up sleeve of Joseph's shirt, down to where his fingers circle your forearm.

"Just one thing before you go. A gift."

His grip detaches from you, and you watch as he begins to unravel the cord of the rosary bound to his wrist and palm. Standing at his full height he towers over you, shorter than Jacob but noticeably taller than John. Without a word you pull your gloves free, reaching out your left hand for him to take.

Joseph's hands are large compared to yours, his fingers making unhurried work as he wraps the rosary across your wrist and fastening it against your palm. And when he's finished you feel his thumbs brushing against the long-scarred sin there, the flat of your knuckles, turning to see the underside of your wrist and the _luxuria_ that stares back.

He only releases you when he offers his last words. "Take care of my family. It's all I ask."

You nod, pulling the sleeve back over your wrist. "I will."

With that said you excuse yourself from the table, meeting John who stands at the foot of the steps. With curious eyes he watches as you pocket your gloves into the back of your slacks, taking hold of his hand where he can feel that familiar rosary pressing against his flesh. He stops you from going any further when you nearly reach the white trellises again, Jacob and Faith coming to meet you both.

"You alright?" is John's first words to you, and you smile at that, nodding.

"Fine," you reassure him. "I'm ready to head home if you are?"

"What did he say?" Jacob brings up first, his arms crossed over his sturdy chest. "That didn't look good from where we were sitting."

You shrug again. Visions, prophecies, this Noah's Ark that's been the same status quo since you've arrived here. Whether you're this supposed Prophet Number Two is debatable and, frankly, terrifies you. "Probably something we should all discuss later. It'll… explain a lot, I think."

Faith comes closer, clutching at your sleeve, and you let her. "Alright. We just want to make sure."

"Probably should head out as soon as you can," Jacob offers. "I think Joseph has another plan for you. No more sitting on your ass, Rook."

At this point, your only concern is to finish what you started and just lay in comfort with John on his bed. But you don't voice this for obvious reasons, sighing. "Yeah, don't have to remind me."

John's hand at the small of your back comforts you, mitigates and melts away that tension you can't seem to shake off just yet from the encounter. 

You all exchange your goodbyes, John asking if you're cold and if you want his coat, to which you shake your head. Apparently, your answer doesn't quite matter because he's shrugging out of it anyway, laying the long coat around your shoulders as you both climb into the car. You feel a lot of it has to do with the fact that this is the same vehicle you'd been nearly clapped and died in, snuggling into the warmth of the fabric, his hint of cologne, the shampoo he used earlier still touched there.

The drive back is pleasant, generally wordless, and free of any interruptions for the drive, and you're content with that. Even if John _does_ turn on the radio and expects you to sing along, word-for-word, to _Oh, John_.

Honestly? He's quite impressed that you do.

 

 

Fatigue and the rush of adrenaline seem to finally empty your body the moment you step through the threshold of John's room. It's like this thin veil that suddenly frees itself from your lungs, your mind, inhaling the soft breeze that passes through his cool room and cracked-open window.

John follows behind not long after, shrugging out of his coat and hanging it back into his closet. In the silence, you sit on the edge of his bed, reaching down to unlace and tuck away your boots and socks. This ritual from business to sleepwear is normalized now, with you usually content to watch him change and he taking his time in doing so. Given you're wearing a full uniform, however, it seems John is the one who gets that privilege this time.

He's in the middle of slipping off his belt from his jeans when he catches onto your own movements. Slower, calmer, yet he notices the shaking adrenaline still rushing from the encounter rattling from your fingertips. It goes to show when you reach for your belt, moving to stand in order to ease your nerves free. 

The buckle gives way, but it's John's warmer, larger grasp that stops you from moving altogether. You see the array of tattoos as clearly as ever on each forearm, letting your own grip on your belt slip apart when he reaches for it. And, after all this time, it's the closest you've ever been to him without a shirt, your eyes studying, mapping his body. There are tattoos here as well--your finger reaches to touch it, trace it lightly against your fingertip on his pectoral. Bewitched even when you feel your slacks loosen, finally looking up to meet John's gaze on your face.

His hands are in the midst of unzipping your slacks, waiting, _wanting_ all over again. To finish what he started, to bury himself deep inside of you, to beg and atone in the only physical prayer he can give.

Your rosary-clad hand reaches to his own at your zipper, guiding him the rest of the way down, and he can't help but surge forward and meet your lips then.

John acts like he hasn't kissed you in days, like he's been waiting for even longer to feel your skin on his. And you feel that same charge, that spark that sets your nerves alight and drugs your mind. You feel his hands slipping against your hips, trailing down your back, yanking at your slacks until you gasp into his mouth, his palms cupping the curve of your ass. Doing so pushes you forward into his chest, and this can't be teased out any longer--you pull away from him so suddenly that he appears stunned, dazed by the detachment, almost outraged by the loss of warmth.

With half-lidded eyes he watches you strip away your clothes, hastily undoing your slacks free, the holster dropped to the side, the buttons of your shirt next. He barely can follow suit, trying to wrestle out of his boots and jeans when you're already on him this time in nothing but your underwear, inexperienced but eager, your kisses open-mouthed, painfully heated. 

When his hands cup your cheeks, your jaw, you're reminded how easily this man can crush you. Shape you into anything he wants, can and has overpowered you. It's a deliberate choice of submission, of letting him lean you down into the center of his mattress. You _want_ him to, to be the one to guide you through this bliss. The way those mapped sins on his hands stroke against your belly, his knees sinking into the duvets, his briefs long since shed. You see what you do to him even here, aching, thick, and you want it to hurt.

No interruptions. No nothing, just him, just you, his pupils blown-out in the soft lamplight of the room.

His voice is hazier, a rougher quality to it than usual, and it makes you ache for him even harder. Those dark eyes on your own, thumbing beneath the hem of your underwear.

"You won't last," he rasps, as if the prospect is an excitement. The potential that you'll unravel beneath him, be split apart because of him. "And yet you want this, don't you?"

Those hands of his are smoothing against your thighs, already spread for him, already wanting and waiting for him to fuck you into this mattress until you can't see straight. And yet these are words you are naïve with, words you don't know what you're asking for. Of course he would have his past addictions, his lineup of lovers left and right, fucking until sunup, sleeping through the dawn, only to rinse and repeat this cycle over and over again. And then there is you, the plain Jane, the begging, innocent lamb, willing to be his sacrifice.

"Yes," you confess to him, watching as he drags your underwear down your thighs. 

You notice his eyes never leave between your thighs even when he does so, studying those tattoos that line his body, completely bare before you, and you to him now, your underwear finally tossed from your ankles. The bunker key dangles and heaves against his every breath, excitement liquidated into molten blood through his eager veins. From the looks of things, he doesn't have to be reminded of what you are, your trust in him, your body, your soul. He has poured himself into you endlessly, this gift you are willing to part with for him, and like this starved man he nods once.

John watches your face, your every expression when you feel the press of his fingers slipping into you. It's only for a moment but you see that string of wetness trailing from his fingertips, how he reaches to stroke himself with that same hand almost immediately. He drags your lower half closer, onto his lap where he's seated on his knees, elevating you yet still _above_ you here.

The moment he pushes the head of his cock into your soaked heat is when your nails dig into his thighs, eyelids fluttering, his mouth parting in an unrestrained moan at your unexpected tightness. Your sharp gasp as he sinks in further, his eyes glancing downwards to watch your folds swallowing the head of him--for the life of him, he wishes you could see how good you fucking look from this angle.

It's agonizingly slow but you love every second of it. The way he stretches you, how hazy and pathetically incoherent you feel because he hasn't even _thrusted into you repeatedly yet_. And John doesn't care, doesn't mind at all, loving the feeling of your fingertips pressing bruises into his thighs when he sinks in inch by inch, the rosary chaffing him there, his chest nearly caving from just how unbelievably snug you are around him. 

And when he looks at you, brows furrowed, eyes half-lidded yet full of bliss when you gaze up at him--he knows. He's eager to remember this, your heaving breasts as he starts with a deliberately excruciating pace. It tortures him, agonizes him when you suck in a hard breath, his hands gripping into the meat of your thighs with the practiced realism achieved by a sculptor and his marble work. He has you spread for his own selfish indulgence, how stunningly attractive his inked hands look compared to the naked canvas of the back of your thighs. He pulls his hips back, his cock slipping from you, then plunges in again slowly, listening to your shaky moan.

You look so doped on this drug of him, debilitated yet entirely invigorated by how he sets his pace for you to adjust. He's reminded of his less than stellar days, this wanton desire that had him craving again and again for this endless loophole of drugs and sex. He'd given up most of that life since his new leaf, but seeing you here beneath him, your knees bent and spread so he can see that pretty picture of his cock thrusting into your sex-- _God_ , it reminds him of an old, buried addiction.

John is enamored, addicted to everything you give him. Every startled gasp you confess to him when he gives a particularly harder thrust just to test your reaction, the way your body twitches when he does, your eyes opening to see that hungry, animalistic expression he offers you. When he thinks he's hitting too deep at times but you _sigh_ , sweat on your brow, captivated by that filthy sound of every wet thrust he lays upon your body. 

His heartbeat races as much as yours, yet observing your pleasure is like much the opposite. This slow motion, this heroin that shoots into his veins and clouds his vision--yes, that's what you are right now, this synthetic drug that he desires, that he's longed stayed away from in favor of that angelic dust that he once craved. He's so in love that he doesn't realize what he's doing--pressing himself so deeply until you cry out his name, your thighs trembling, feeling every inch of him sunken into your heat, his pelvis against yours.

"Please!" you tell him, beg him, for what he isn't so sure. But he likes what he hears, how you say it, your voice hoarse with pants and airy breaths.

With renewed effort he readjusts his grip against the back of your thighs, feeling little resistance on your end, the way you nod for him to fuck you in earnest. And why would he deny you that after everything you've done for him?

It's hotter, heavenly when he picks up the pace. And you know it's harder because his breaths are getting harsher, the bedframe and mattress squeak in tandem, his eyes so intense on your every expression to know what you like and don't. But you take it all, you enjoy it all, too bashful to meet his gaze for long when he's completely captivated, drinking in every moment like he has this photographic memory. When he rasps out your name you know it's a struggle, this building pressure in your loins, loving his body, how unashamed he is to groan aloud to let you know what you're doing to him.

"Look at me," he orders you, his pace a hard rhythm now, barely any blue left in those pupil-blown eyes. You do--you do it for him, even as you're crying out, gasping for air at every thrust. "Look at me when I'm _fucking you_." 

You don't mean to, but he can feel it--the way you clench around his cock the moment those words are out of his mouth, your eyes struggling but you want to please him. His hand reaches down, thumb trailing against your chin, and you are just as far gone as he is--that thumb of his presses between your lips and you accept it, teeth pressing gently into his skin there.

John doesn't stay there long--he wants to see you fall apart just as he intended. To see every inch of your skin marked by him with more than just the words he inks into you, his fingers trailing around your breasts that bounce with each of his thrusts. It's his wet thumb that now presses against your clit that has you jolting, a sharp cry coming forth, and fuck him-- _he looks positively pleased with himself_.

That numbing pleasure returns, travels and climbs up the base of your spine to your neck. And he's rubbing his thumb in torturous circles there, his hips smacking into you now--you know you're not going to walk straight after this if you chose to do so at all. The pleasure is unbearable, this electricity that buzzes and overpowers you to the point where you can feel tears welling in your eyes as you call out his name in a high-pitched cry.

And he is obsessed, feeling your walls tightening, your own defenses crumbling. You are vulnerable to one another, his skin too hot yet perfect, chaffing you, your fingers digging into his thighs borderline _painful_ as the rosary cuts into your flesh, burns you with cleansing fire. Yet to him it's just right, if more than enough--but you need him. You need him to kiss you, swallow your gasps, his thumb toying with your clit back and forth, your head falling back to the duvets as your body stills and trembles with sudden, startled cry.

His eyes widen, suddenly overwhelmed when you seize around him, his chest caving, hovering over you as he gasps. Watches that lovely ecstasy that crosses your expression, the same way Bernini had captured Saint Teresa on that marble slab housed within the church walls. John is helpless to you, devoted to you when he sees those pleasure-borne tears streaking down your cheeks, your thighs quaking uncontrollably as you orgasm around him, nails trailing angry red imprints down his thighs as you're delivered from high up above your pleasure.

Your cheeks, after a good solid minute of him simply buried inside of you, suddenly glow. You crack open your eyes, chest rising up and down, John still waiting for you to recover, your toes uncurling. He pulls out momentarily, still hard, when you realize with embarrassment what had just happened.

_I came too soon, I came too soon, he hasn't even--_

"Oh, fuck," you whimper, mortified, bringing your hands to cover your reddening face. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry--"

He is too enraptured to care, his cock slipping back into your oversensitive heat, to which he sinks in with little resistance. And you gasp into his mouth, how he presses you into the mattress, the weight of his body a comfort to you as every touch is now dialed higher. He's not finished with you. Did you think you were capable of that mercy? To think he would let you be as you pleased? No. And you want this for him, despite your shaking legs, fucked beyond raw as you feel yourself twitch around his length. With renewed, shaking vigor you nod to him, ready for him to take what he pleases from you.

And John's pace is nothing short of desperate, filled with groans and panting breaths that do more than enough to arouse you again. This time it's you who praises him--how good he feels, how pretty he looks above you like this, sweet nothings as his body is covered in a sheen of thin sweat. How his perfectly groomed hair falls out of place, swaying in tandem with his thrusts as he fucks you.

That star-studded hand reaches for one of yours, guiding it across your hipbone, below and further where his thumb had lay claim to your indulgence.

You know what he wants, but he says it anyways, gasping it out as his head is thrown in pleasure. He has to rasp the words out, choking on his own gasps as he does so. "Do it. D-Do it for me."

And he watches your embarrassed yet aroused whimper as you touch yourself, groans like it's the last time he'll ever be able to bear witness to this. You feel that growing rise to another precarious edge, how his thrusts become heady, lost in rhythm in this ages-old ritual that has been deeply seated, rooted, hardwired in your primal instincts. Your embarrassment fades, circling, pinching, touching yourself to please him as he watches while simultaneously fucking you. You study his expressions with bleary eyes, the way you can tell he's so close to coming. That heavenly meld of both pain and pleasure that can be mistaken for both.

You can do nothing but watch him, emulate his earlier desires--and really, truly, you see the appeal. The way he chokes out a strangled groan, losing his breath. The look of utter rapture on his face when he suddenly pulls out, warmth hitting your belly, beneath your breasts as he comes, his hand stroking himself to completion. And you hold yourself diligently there, moaning quietly as his own body is catered to aftershocks of his orgasm, suddenly weary and spent.

Gently you guide him to you, cupping his face, peppering soft kisses against his forehead, his brow bone, his nose, his cheeks. The touch of you melts him, his breaths shaky and hard, gazing upon you with unbending piety. With what little energy he has left, he turns his head in your palms to kiss at one, hearing your soft laugh.

It's moments later he leaves you to relax, grabbing a hot, wet towel to wash off his mess from your body. And while he does it, doing so with all the care and worship of a devoted sculptor cleansing his most pious art, he runs the towel slowly against your skin. Your hand in his where he's seated on the edge of the bed, clothed from the waist down now, your eyes shut as you breathe deeply.

"I want another tattoo," you break the silence, gazing upon the ceiling as his hands continue their work. Cleansing you, baptizing you as he brings your rosary-wrapped palm for him to kiss.

"Of what?"

"Your name. Right at my lower back."

John visibly stills, staring up at you like he actually _enjoys_ the idea of that, until you give his arm a quick slap. "I'm kidding! God, you're terrible. I was gonna say a bishop. Like the chess piece."

It's not his name, certainly, but he understands what this also means. How he lifts his pondering gaze from you to your body, finding a spot he thinks would be suitable for it. And he nods--he agrees with this idea, he _likes_ it for what it is and what it stands for, will prepare upon it whenever you're ready.

With a sleepy smile, you squeeze his hand, ushering him to get under the covers with you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> will the rest of the future chapters be this long? probably not. but it was def a treat to write!


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something tells you that he would allow it. That he would let you put a bullet through his heart for all the times you'd nearly died for him, had sacrificed your body and soul for him. And he wouldn't want it from anyone else but you--this punishment, this deserving sin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not _entirely_ satisfied with this chapter, but here it is nonetheless. sorry for the delay on this one! just had a difficult time organizing it all together.

There is something unknowingly etheric about standing in the Bliss-filled pools again.

Like remembering that John had nearly drowned you here, much to his rather poorly-hidden and sheepish look, and you almost gifting him a fresh black eye over the remark at all. But aside from the jesting and how _not_ inconspicuous he was being about pulling you into his side to kiss your cheek in front of everyone, you think that there's something almost… divine about being here.

Those twinkles of dust-like mote that you know are the effects of the Bliss push behind your eyes, casting John in the splashing waters of a surrealism only found in the passages of a long-forgotten testament. His bible opened and in hand, reciting psalms as the familiar process comes forth--those who are accepted to reach atonement, who can and will be one enough to see the removal of their sins. 

You feel, as you meet John's gaze when he glances over his shoulder, that this is all purely symbolic in its full nature. Yet he chooses to do it--you wouldn't be at his side otherwise if he hadn't, guiding those selected for their first stages to the path that leads behind you. And it's such a strange interaction altogether; the way their eyes drag from the cool waters, to your gloved, outstretched hands. The beads of the rosary dangling from your wrapped palm, the recognition of the black and olive tones of your uniform.

They take your hands the moment they see your face, your welcoming expression, and somehow, someway, you feel their fears wane. The uncertainties of some unknown, of some insignificant sin that has yet to be absolved and is only possible and shielded through you. You don't know what it is--the uniform, who you are, what they know of you that seems to dispel this resonating fear that leads them. And you accept it willingly--letting it sink into your flesh, your rosary-clad hand, anything to let them feel secure, safe in their own skin for the road ahead.

It goes like this for some time--hands passing through hands, the recognition within their expressions, this sudden shift from anxiety to relief.

That is, until you hear a commotion going on in the waters ahead.

You see the full length of John's back hunched over, his silk shirt drenched and turning it dark, almost black in this lighting. A hand surfaces from the water, fisting into the sleeves of his shirt, but John is able to stand his weight. This is his holy ground. His judgement which will ascertain whether or not one is deserving of atonement, now that Joseph isn't here to oversee it. The balance has been delegated not to Joseph, but to you.

You allow the last few chosen to slip through your fingers, footsteps sinking into the shallow tides of the pool as John wrestles to cleanse what superficial sin mires in the water.

"John?"

Your voice behaves like one in the back of his mind--the metaphorical palms on his shoulders, gentle hands over his, ready to guide him back into the blinding light that you both share in this walk. It is different than Joseph's--soft, but not like the crack of a whip that which breeds trepidation. 

Almost as quickly as you say his name, John brings the man to surface, just as you have done the same to him. His shoulders square as he hears the soft wading of your approach, pivoting in the water when he feels you near.

The pool soaks his clothes and fits snugly against his body. And though he is not as tall as his brothers, he's taller than _you_ , his frame eclipsing your view of what lies beyond him. That almost frenzied look that possesses him seems to dissipate the moment you reach for his hands, just as those behind you had relinquished hold of their own.

You still remember Joseph's words, his reminder of your own mercy. And maybe, you feel, coming from your own mouth might be heard within that clarity instead.

And yet John still seems almost flustered, as if he must explain his actions to you. "He wasn't--"

You shush him. 

"You have to love them, right?" you remind him, for both of your sakes. The way his blue gaze locks into yours, melts away from this mindless madman with a hatred that runs deeper than his own pockets. 

And he's yours--he will always be yours. "You have to. Even if they say no."

And he understands, he at least _tries_ to, and that will always be enough for you. But there is something that stirs turmoil within his gaze--enough that he is swayed to avert his eyes from you if only for a moment, as if he is disconcerted by meeting your expectations. You are not Joseph, not even with his rosary wrapped around your hand, urging John to speak his mind instead of turning to silence.

Finally, John appears to compose himself. To find those particular words, resolute in his expression, as if he is finding that calm appeal within your eyes now becoming his.

"You're right," he confesses lightly, something in his tone that is meant only for you. And somehow, like the nature of him as some raging storm, the winds change just as easily. "I should be. I _have_ to. But if they won't say _yes_ to me?"

He finally turns, coming to stand at your side, flourishing a hand before you both. The sinner that so deeply needs to be atoned that the hands of the Baptist would choke the life of it from him. A cultist on each of his flanks, holding him upright in that soaked uniform that mirrors yours.

It's that gut feeling of standing perched over a drop that consumes you, cooler than the water that drenches your hips.

Sheriff Whitehorse appears just as wide-eyed as you. His cowboy hat is missing, floating away deeper into the shallow end of the pond when he had been unceremoniously cleansed. His lenses are dotted with droplets of water, receding hair flattened against that familiar face. For a moment he is the first to move, or attempts to, an arm jerking against the hold from one of the cultists until he is reigned firmly to the spot.

"Rook?" he utters your name in disbelief--as if you had passed, had already been dead and gone all this time. And it shouldn't hurt when he says it but it _does_. "Kid, oh my _God_ , you're alive..."

John interrupts him, his struggling, a hand at the small of your back. 

Just as you remind him, he is here to remind _you_. "If you can't say yes to _me_ , Sheriff… then you can say yes to _her_."

You are both too frozen, too caught up in the reunion to rightly process these words. You feel this odd sensation envelop you, seize you from the momentary clutches of this supposed prophecy. And you know this feeling when you stare into the eyes of the man who had taken you under his wing, had stood up for you back at the jailhouse when you'd made mistakes. You feel childish, unbecoming, small beneath his gaze, as if the truth of your own actions are under the scrutiny of a father.

Whitehorse's expressions are one of deep conflict--at the way John's hand is pressed comfortably, warmly against your back. How the Baptist is standing so unnecessarily _close_ to you, how you seem to not even appear put off from his presence, if anything _welcome_ it. And yet it's you, the same rookie he had doted upon as one of his own. Someone he should have protected, shielded from the face and realities of what you now stand beside, searching your eyes for any source of the Bliss, of your being here against your will.

Your hands outstretch towards him, palms upwards, countenance clear of any other influence.

"Just say yes," you urge him softly, saintly. With the love you so revere, can dole out on a whim. The words almost bring tears to the old sheriff's eyes. "Do it for me."

And his words, too, spear into your heart an unsettling discomfort.

"I'm sorry." 

You study the way his eyes seem to glisten with a wetness that almost springs your own. 

"I'm so sorry, kid. Sorry I wasn't there for you. For letting it come this far. You were my responsibility, one of my own--and it's my fault, _mine_ …"

Some lump forms in your throat, like some winch tightening at your chest with every turn. The hanging rosary in your palm quivers, hearing the desperation calling out to you in this man you have only ever seen as a surrogate father on the work force. He still wears his uniform, though whether or not as proudly as he had in the years prior is debatable. 

He's failed--as an officer, a protector, a father, a husband--and he knows it.

And for that, you want to believe, is a pain, not a sin that he seems to project to you, that must be comforted.

Without another word you reach forward, in mind and body, for the man before you. That familiar comfort of him, the softness of his warmth as your arms wind around his frame. How the cultists release him the moment you had even moved, his arms coming around in that familiar defensive armor you've known him for. The shaking of his shoulders the moment you even put your hands on him--you shush him, this sad, timeworn of a man whose fights are larger and larger than he can ever compete to be. And somewhere, he's still right: _Sometimes it's best to leave well alone_.

No matter how far either of you have come, it seems, this advice seems to pave way.

"Say yes," you urge him quietly, one last time. "You can be saved, let me do this for you. For everything you've done for me."

When you pull back he is silent, those tears in his eyes as he stands true to his word. But so are yours.

Finally, after what feels like endless moments, he nods. Not happily, nor in defeat either. He'd planned on retiring in some near future, you imagine. A future you're not too sure will be possible, not without him saying _yes_ to you.

Whitehorse does, even if it's just a murmur, a soft shoal brought in from the tides. The rider in which its steed bows to, your hand reaching to press gently against the side of his neck in comfort. Without sparing words you look over to John, who appears transfixed, almost in a stupor from the exchange.

"May I?" you ask him, though by John's expression he doesn't seem to know why you do. 

Still, he nods all the same.

It is you who must restart the cleansing in proper order, just as John had done. And by your urging he begins to recite again from the book, Whitehorse in your arms, bent into the water and ever pliant beneath your touch. Willing this time, resurfacing yet still the same man. You wouldn't want it any other way, guiding him to the path forward, his hand leaving yours.

You realize, then, what a spectacle you've made of yourself. Not one of negativity, but of curiosity--perplexity. How eyes linger longer upon you until you turn to John, who still has his book perched in prayer until you reach for it to shut.

"That was good," he finally remarks, shaking you from your thoughts. " _You_ … did good."

Perhaps it's the collective sins of the others that you carry but you don't feel any less _cleansed_ than you do _good_. If anything, you feel more exhausted, _weary_ at the prospect of what had just occurred--the acquiescence of the man you love as your own father, of his willingness not to be saved for his own good, but for the sake of your own happiness.

This realization has your gut churning, almost ill, reaching outwards for John.

Without missing a beat, he takes your hand, watching you compose yourself and steadying your breaths. It's as if the weight of the world itself is pressing down against your weary shoulders, to plunge you deep into that shallow water again to be reemerged clean once more. But you can't--you don't know if you should, turning to look him in those blue eyes that, despite all those woes and pains that are submerged and buried deep within its ocean floors, still brings you comfort.

"Is that all, John?" you pose to him, almost expressionless at first. 

He's uncertain to what you are feeling right now, have internalized now that he's had to bear witness to that unfold, and simply nods instead.

You are called upon the baptisms more and more often than either of you care to notice--delivered from both the hands of John and you. And those who refuse, who would rather make their own living from the cult? You allow to leave and walk away freely. It's a discussion you have with John at first about the nature of _kidnapping_ folks for these things, which stemmed into this half-hour long debate over dinner about it. That _it's a crime and that's exactly why I had to come arrest your brother in the first place_ against his _I'm a lawyer, I can build our defense in court if I have to!_

Miraculously, you won the argument over the family lawyer. Well--not _initially_ at first, as he _did_ somehow build a better defense, but the prospect of you threatening to sleep on the couch tonight didn't win him any favors. So, he submitted, albeit almost reluctantly, in favor of redeeming himself before you; though redemption over some squabble involved the fact that he got to take you any way he wanted you against the loveseat that night.

Things do warm up though--what had once been some forced subjugation of makeshift saviors has suddenly churned out into some long-term effect. People are _hearing_ about this change in the Project and some, though not all, have turned to seconds thoughts. And John, bless him, he tries his best and you can see it--how he appears agitated at times over those who refuse his offer at the last second, who are still unsure of precisely what they're signing up for. And he learns to let go; that not everyone can or wishes to be saved. For this, you have nothing but praise for him and what John has done, and hopefully continues to do.

It's another time you're called in to help when John's demeanor seems to shift. As if there is finally a hole, a flaw in your plan of making this an opened-door policy into salvation. You anticipated it--you told him you would be fully prepared to take that blame, to owe up to that mistake should something happen.

When you arrive at the scene, however, it's not a sight you're expecting. With John's back to you, he turns once more upon hearing your footsteps at the shore, his jeans soaked where he stands in the middle of the pool. There is something in his expression you can't exactly read--this conflict, this almost profound _guilt_ that seems to overtake him. But he is one enough to face you now, as there's no turning back as you come closer, puzzled.

"Everything alright?" you begin, gloved palms skimming the surface of the water.

"Rook!" a voice behind John calls out, and from the splashing you can tell it's been another rough handling for him to deal with in a civil manner. "God damn, is that really you?!"

_But that voice… you **know** it, you **do** \--_

The tacky hoodie design, the fact that he even towers over John Seed himself--the face of Charlemagne Victor Boshaw IV leaps over the Baptist's shoulder, who now appears the literal definition of _irritated_ by this intrusion. You can already see the stress pouring into John by the mere sound of Sharky's voice alone, who is suddenly overeager and disregarding of the nature of the cult that surrounds him.

With an almost apologetic look to John, he finally turns to let you slip past him and to your long-standing friend, your lover remarking in annoyance, "He wouldn't… stop _calling_ for you…"

The fact that Sharky literally throws his arms around you from the grip of the cultists holding him back is threatening enough--someone's already reaching for their holster if not for John's hand holding out in a gesture to reign them back. And it's exactly as you expected from your residential pyromaniac--loud, tearful, and much of him shoving your face into his shoulder to the point where your words are nothing but muffles as you pat his back throughout his blathering monologue.

John's grip literally is the only thing that saves you from being further suffocated into Sharky's damp hoodie, who can only apologize after another toothy grin at the prospect of your survival.

After another inhale you can finally muster your voice. "I missed you too, Sharky, glad to see you haven't changed a bit."

"Yup! Though I will say, things have been gettin' pretty damn lackluster without my favorite cop around. When I heard the cult was doin' some open-door policy thing I had this thought: Hey! This is my one chance to really take a look and see if Rook's there leading the charge or--"

John is on the verge of plugging his ears with his fingers as Sharky goes on another one of his tangents, to which you imagine John had already heard about twenty of since your arrival here. To save your man any further pain and headaches, you urge Sharky to politely reroute his questions, to which he finally seems to understand.

"Ah, right, right," Sharky begins, glancing down at the water in puzzlement. "First off: what's with the wet t-shirt contests? Is this part of the cult initiation? 'Cuz y'all, if someone pissed in the water, full disclosure, it _ain't_ me--"

You _swear_ you can hear John's jaw clenching and try not to laugh.

"Were you hoping to join?" you pose first and foremost, reaching a hand out for him to take.

It's like impulse for the man-child. Without much thought or context, Sharky's hand meets yours in a firm low-five. "Hell yeah, I do!"

Yes, it's exactly what it sounds like--John's aggravated growl as he turns away, trying to compose himself in the face of this _idiot_ that is apparently undeserving and far below his paygrade. But he must persevere--he _has_ to, because this same man who thinks that your offering into the baptism is the same initiative as a handshake is your _best friend_.

"Hey, I'm doin' this 'cuz _you're_ in it to win it, Dep," Sharky continues, going with the flow as you guide him to properly be submerged. He suddenly leans in closer, as if his voice is even capable of hiding itself from John who is _right there_ , yet goes on to say, "I heard some weird shit that John fucked you? Back in his bunker? And recorded it and kept it on one of his backlogs to jerk off to the entire time y'all were huntin' each other?"

It's good timing that you dunk Sharky into the water when you do just as John chokes.

And you love both of them--you really do. That John had been open for this opportunity that your friends could even be saved. Not all, you presume with a heavy heart, but some. You can already gauge with the count of your fingers who the potential candidates are, have spent endless hours and nights with John looking over the bunker floorplans, the risk of food shortages, the maximum capacity to be anticipated. You mention weddings and pregnancies only because of sheer possibility--there could be more mouths to feed than expected, and you may not have the supplies to count. 

In long-scope logistics, John sets another mug of coffee down near the numbers you've scrawled down on the kitchen table. And the night only grows wearier. Staying in touch with Sharky had lifted your mood, but only temporarily. You and John ruminate on other possibilities, and you on the slow arrival of other allies.

Adelaide comes next a few days later, though looking reluctant as ever, and had _politely_ requested to omit the baptizing. That is until she had flickered her knowing gaze between you and the towering frame of John at your back, mouthing to you words you're glad John had briefly turned his back on to not catch.

_You fucking him?_

It takes much willpower for you to not roll your eyes, nodding at her all the same.

 _Details,_ she mouths again, winking. _All the fine details._

To no one's surprise, she's more willing to be pressed into the water by John than by you.

Hurk's arrival is almost similar to Sharky's, though John strangely decides to excuse himself upon hearing that thick accent of the self-proclaimed all-American. In the back of your mind you faintly recall John murmuring that the bunker may possibly be at capacity after this--or, you presume in mild amusement, there may be _less_ folks due to Hurk's appearance.

Silence ensuing the next week is enough of an answer for you when no one else turns up on the Project's doorstep. Jess, Grace, you don't hear a peep from--to be expected. They've spent much of their time _fighting_ , detesting the same folks you've now sworn to protect. Have probably dedicated every meticulous moment observing your actions, your motivations from afar. Maybe Grace had you lined up in her scope from a thousand yards away. 

Your question for her, then, would be why didn't she ever bother to pull the trigger? Did you really expect, like Joseph, to have some divine intervention save you for another time? Was nearly dying for John, five rounds through your body, not enough? Another vehicular crash to add onto it? The countless figures that paid with their lives because of the wrongs done to you?

And what about Jess? Knowing that you had some part and play in the destruction of the militia in the mountains, standing beside the same military man who had tortured her, her family. You have all been wronged by the Seeds, that was truth enough. 

But no one who had been wronged by them had desired to unearth the truth, that understanding--to know the pains brought to them by this world. 

To see Jacob, this unsung warrior who projects his trauma onto others, to be uncared for as an American soldier and tossed away from the eyes of the world. Who believes his purpose lays in nothing more than _sacrifice_ , where few things have been able to bring him joy. And Faith, who, despite it all, who had indulged in you the truth of her own purpose--you promised her, swore that you would see that no harm would befall her should she lose sight on Joseph's vision. That if she wanted to walk away, you would let her. But it's her who confesses that she'll stay, at least for _your_ sake because of your decision on the matter.

And no matter what the prophet Seed had done to you, had misunderstood from you, you'd still been one enough to at least come to _terms_ with him.

The world had bled these siblings dry, and no one had ever bothered to ask them _why_.

It's just another thought of the many you're constantly reminded of--especially of John, whom you tend to catch with his gaze fixated on you in some lovesick devotion whenever he thinks you're not looking. How after the baptisms you help to towel-dry his face, his arms before the drive back home. You think he's improved himself--has bettered himself, how his rage seems to tide over, instead of boil altogether. You think, maybe, you alone would have been enough to bring him to that so-called salvation that he could never be balanced perfectly upon.

And things are never what they truly seem. A few weeks later, with recruits already getting settled in, with you and John about to shut the gates to that so-called Eden after nearing capacity, John calls for you to return one final time.

Stepping into the waters only to come face-to-face with John Seed and Nick Rye at odds, just like moments before he'd flayed the tattooed sin right off of his chest. The water churns, echoes in violent turmoil from Nick's struggle--even John's men are having a harder time than with Sharky, and you know you have to intervene _again_.

There is something almost petty, short about John's tone as he stands his ground despite Nick being an arm's length away from decking him to the shore. "I've told you and your family already--there will always be room in our salvation." He pauses, thinking. "Well, I told you and Kim that _months_ ago. Though now, I'm not so sure--"

You call out his name, and it is not soft this time. Enough for John to cut himself off harshly at that almost thunderous tenor, that _disapproval_ that he's finally garnered from your mercy. And just like that he is nothing but a boy again, gazing upon you when he turns, your hand pressing against his chest to guide him to stand aside.

He wants to speak again, to explain himself like he had done all those times, but you won't have it. 

"No," you interrupt him, your rosary-clad palm like the stalwart of a brick wall against his opened shirt. "I want Nick to explain to me what you said to him. What you were going to say to him."

And Nick visibly appears alleviated, John almost _hurt_ , and you awaiting the truth.

"He says he doesn't have room to accommodate my family, Dep," Nick explains, the words hard on his voice. "Says that I'm gonna have to choose who gets to stay. Me? Kim? My _daughter?_ "

 _Your_ goddaughter.

The water beside you shuffles, vibrates with the angered tone that rattles your very bones. 

"Because you decided _now_ of all times to take my offer! After all this!" your lover shouts, pointing an accusing finger at the pilot. "Had you accepted it then maybe you and your entire family would have been allowed salvation! Instead you come here, blame _me_ for--"

"John," you call out one last time, as if in warning. " _Enough_."

You make him look you in the eyes when his words taper off, fingers soft against his jaw. If he looks away he would hurt you, insult you, his bottom lip brushing beneath your thumb as you remind him of your own pain.

"I gave up my family to be with yours," you state, unblinking. "You understand that, don't you?"

You hate to see him like this--only wanting to please, to only be good in your eyes. But you don't want him to be _good_ ; you want him to be _better_ than this.

It takes a silent moment, you can feel his lip trembling with the answer, but he finally gives unto you. "Yes. I understand."

"Then make room for Nick and his family," you tell him, watching his face change into that turmoil of conflict once more.

"Rook, you've seen the figures, you _know_ how much room is left--" He tries to argue once more but you've drawn the line. 

Because your words are true--you _had_ left everyone behind, had dropped your friends and family without warning in order to understand him, this path, this so-called salvation that could be mistaken for a reckoning. What John had inferred as your selflessness, the others had called selfish. Other names among them, but to see them still loyal to _you_ , to think that change had come to this Project and that your survival somehow _means_ something--John owed you that much, at least.

So you give him the only option you can.

"I won't stay if Nick and his family can't."

Every pair of eyes in the proximity of you turns and stares your way, wide-eyed.

And John appears lost, as if those words are a physical blow to his gut. He is silent, stunned, glancing over at the just as slack-jawed Nick Rye. And John's eyes say it all: _what makes you so special? What makes you so different and significant to her that she would abandon me for your family? Why are you the reason she would leave me?_

Because you still remember what petty things John has done to your friend, his wife, their then-unborn child. You had been the one to take them both to the clinic, had waited for hours just to have Kim reach for your hands to be the first friend to cradle their daughter. To take away from those in their time of need just to get them to _join_ doesn't garner respect, dependency--it only paved way for more resistance, traction against the Project and its purpose.

Finally, John nods. "Okay. We'll accommodate them."

This alone is enough for John's men to release Nick, who all but stumbles forward to tower over you. John motions for them to go--this is the last to be cleansed tonight, perhaps for the longest while, ordering the others to pack up and prepare to move forward.

"Can I talk to you?" Nick questions beneath his breath, glancing over at John. " _Alone?_ "

"You can talk right here," John mocks, coming closer to your side where his chest touches you, envelops you to the point where you're nearly getting _sandwiched_ between the two men. "Confessions are meant to be heard, Nick. Anything you can say to Rook you can say to me."

Nick's jaw clenches, his fingers visibly digging into the palms of his hands that you're terrified he'll draw blood on them. That anger, however, suddenly shifts--not at John, you feel, but how his words will _affect_ him. And it's this that John doesn't like, his body tense against you, tattooed hands coming to find anchor on your hips.

"Fine," Nick bites at John, then turns back to you. "Then I hope you know, Dep," Nick begins, eyes free from his aviators for you to take him in, "that I didn't come here willingly."

John's grip suddenly tightens.

"That none of us did. Not Sharky, not Hurk, not even Adelaide, and you think she would, right?" Nick laughs, though whatever mirth it backs it doesn't translate. "We did it because _you're_ here after they picked us all off one by one. That maybe you could get these fuckin' peggies off of our backs. But we've heard the news, Dep, and shit's _bad_ ; things are only about to get worse."

When John doesn't meet your gaze at first you know why he can't. Because he would see that look of confusion, alarm you give him when Nick had said he hadn't come _willingly_ , that he had turned and gone back on your words that he'd promised that things around here would change. It isn't for the better though--it never had been, the water too cool for you in this heat, John's hands on you suddenly too much.

"Get Kim and your daughter ready." Your voice is soft, almost distant. "Anything wrong happens, tell me. I'll deal with it."

John and Nick share another look, one that lingers for too long, as if the Baptist is accusing him, _hating_ him for using those words against him.

"Gotcha, Dep," Nick obliges, turning to head back to the path. "Knew I could count on ya."

You wait until he leaves, until the clearing is nothing more than what it seems, before prying John's reluctant hands off from your body.

"When were you going to tell me?" you ask him, expression hard to gauge. " _Were_ you going to tell me?"

"I saw how much you missed them," he defends, stepping forward into you, but you only step back. He pauses, noticing this, noticing _all_ of you now. "You think they would come otherwise? Knowing who I am, who my family is? They came for you."

You hate it, you _hate_ he had to do it this way, but you understand, even if it wasn't what he should've done. It was supposed to be an improvement, a way for those to choose their own paths, not to _please_ you. You hate that he would even put Nick in such a difficult position--to think that you could choose between only him or the rest of his family, to think you would only ever accept just _him_ and not those he has a love and responsibility for.

You lift your cool gaze from the still waters, moonlight reflecting from the pale clarity, glancing from the bunker key against his sin to those dark-blue eyes.

"What else are you hiding, John?"

 

 

It's the first time you've stepped foot into John's Gate since your escape and reunion with Hudson here.

Everything about it is almost the same as you remember it being. The same bullet holes that riddle the walls, the same paint and décor splattered on them, the voiceover of Joseph on the speakers preaching those promised words that John himself cannot seem to practice. It is silent the entire way he guides you through the halls, your footsteps echoing in tandem, memorizing every inch of this interior. He leads you past the corridors of voices that stun you--folks screaming, banging at the doors to be let out, released, that they have nothing to atone for.

You'll be living here soon, you remind yourself; you'll be spending the next prophesized _seven_ years here, with him. And whatever John intends to hide, whatever is meant to be swept and concealed behind his back can't be for long.

Everything is the same until you both reach a stairwell, a room with a stench that incense and burning candles and Datura flowers alone can't ever mask.

You watch the hanging, motionless bodies suspended like some fucking _home décor_ , dry pools of blood on the floor, words of praise and promise painted on the metal beams. You say nothing, not even when John walks past them like he's browsing through some monotonous artistic exhibit, unaffected by the stench of corpses that have been purposefully used as a remodeling tool. You yourself must press your hands against your face, the foul odor bringing tears into your eyes, until finally, finally he turns to you once and for all.

This is his final gift to you, his final secret, his _sin_ that he must confess to you.

At first you don't recognize the almost emaciated appearance of her slouched form against faded, thick ropes. Delirious, if anything half-asleep and drugged up on another form of Bliss-induced drugs. And, unlike last time, she isn't tied to a chair with wheels--the legs on this one are fixed, _nailed_ to the floor. You don't recognize her at first because her hair is greasier, visibly grown out, but it's her uniform, that dirtied _HUDSON_ still breathing life against her barely rising chest that you finally do.

You don't realize that pain stunting your heart, your breaths coming out short, John's hand suddenly reaching to steady against your shoulder as you physically cannot hold yourself together. But the moment he touches you, the moment contact can be fully made to comfort, you rip yourself away, eyes blurry and voice trembling.

"Joey?" you call to her, reaching for her to shake her to consciousness. "Joey, wake up, wake _up_."

Her skin feels like bones--she's been fed, but not enough, not _properly_ and barely given anything to get by. And it doesn't take days to do this to someone. It takes weeks. _Months_ of constant lack of monitoring or deliberate torture or supervision to force someone into this emaciated state. She feels so much smaller than usual, not like how you remembered her being. She'd always been stronger than you, had always been the first to look out for you when you'd first joined the force. 

Your hand tremors with fear, cupping her cheek, urging her to fucking wake up already.

After another soft pat to her gaunt cheeks her eyes blink awake, blood-shot, tired, barely comprehending you. You feel she isn't usually roused from sleep in such a way, her chin lifting slightly, dark brows furrowed when you call out her name. No one calls her that--maybe she hasn't heard it in so long, but it takes a moment for her to really _register_ that as being her name, not _Deputy_ , not _Deputy Hudson_. 

Your fingers grace her jawline, helping her to look more properly into your tearful eyes, that familiar face, _your_ face.

"It's me," you shush her when she groans out, throat scratchy, dry. "It's me, Joey, it's Rook."

"Don't hurt her," she murmurs, "don't fucking touch her…"

You hurriedly wipe your eye with the back of your sleeve. "Joey, I'm okay, I'm right here, I'm here for you."

"Rook?" she finally says, finally acknowledges you, your uniform and all, pristine compared to hers. "You're alive? You're fucking alive, I can't… I can't believe it. All this time."

_All this time? How **much** time?_

"I've tried to escape. We all did. Did you see the ones who didn't make it?" she laughs, choking on it, wheezing on her words. "They're hanging like fucking Home Depot furniture."

You're cold, hands clammy beneath your gloves, legs trembling.

Hudson's eyes have only been on you now, how you block her vision, her expression suddenly changing. Like after all this, she's finally had this moment of clarity where she can internalize and come to this _conclusion_ that she hasn't come to before. The last time she'd seen you was when you'd escaped, had been nothing but enemies with the same man you now share a bed with. Had watched him nearly choke the life from you, had prepared you for his own violent atonement.

"If you're here, that means…" Hudson's eyes widen, shifting weakly against the rope, but she needs the answer, she _knows_ the answer. "You did it. You did it, right? You killed that fucking bastard? You _killed John Seed?_ "

You stare at her, those waiting eyes, hope blossoming life into them than you'd never think possible anymore. As if you saying _yes, he is_ will be enough to let her know that this endless torture, this prolonged and unnecessary pain she had to submit to had been for something. But you can't say the words she wants to hear because they aren't true. 

And you feel that she finally knows this when you stand to your full height, regretful, remorseful, as you turn your body and you're both locking eyes with the man who has been silent the entire confession.

It's noiseless at first--John's apathetic stare at Hudson, your own unreadable expression upon him, and the final terror that suddenly possesses her.

"Oh, _fuck!_ " she roars, violently wriggles in her bonds, breathing harshly, loudly. "Kill him, _shoot him_ , Rook, he's right _fucking_ there!"

You don't hear her at first, watching John, _reading_ him in this moment. How his hands are slack against his sides, how he simply watches Hudson rattle and scream and shriek in her chair at the top of her lungs for you to _kill him, **fucking kill him!**_ over and over again until she's slack against the ropes, sobbing into herself. 

It's when your hand finally reaches for your chest holster do John's eyes finally move over to yours, catching the movement in slowed time, your rosary-blessed fingers, the way it brushes against the clasps holding the magnum into place. How John merely watches with that same apathy, if not love for _you_ even, express itself in his gaze as your fingers and rosary fully curl around the grip.

Something tells you that he would allow it. That he would let you put a bullet through his heart for all the times you'd nearly died for him, had sacrificed your body and soul for him. And he wouldn't want it from anyone else but you--this punishment, this deserving sin.

"Why won't you kill him?" Hudson's voice breaks when neither of you move, not even John speaks, unnerving her, getting beneath her skin. "Rook…"

The fact that he wants to be punished--that if he were to die, he would want it delivered from your own hands? You can't be judge, jury, executioner. You can't be the one to make that call, to think because some foolish man claims you to be the shared prophet, you're suddenly elevated above the rest of reality. You don't even know if you believe. 

But if John had a choice, if he were to die right now, it would be from your hands.

"I can't," you finally mutter, finger leaving the heavy trigger. John's eyes widen, bright and such a childish blue, so beautiful against the tiny airplane patterns against his coat. "I can't do that."

" _Why?_ " Hudson's voice is hoarse, like it's been choked down with sandpaper. "After everything he's done to us? Done to _me?_ Why would you--?"

_\--protect him?_

You feel her next words, the way her breath stunts, teary eyes gathering the strength to look up at your face. How you turn your gaze from John to her, taking in the beauty that she is, the shine of her hair faded, the dirt and blood and grease of her uniform. But there's one thing that John couldn't rip away from her, destroy from her--that sudden epiphany in her eyes, that dawning realization from an ally to hatred.

And her voice chokes, mouth agape, as if she is physically trying to move away from you now. "After all this? After _everything?_ "

For the first time you flinch when she screams, spitting the words at you like knives. "Why? _Why_ , Rook?! He fucking tortured me, he would never let me leave this fucking place! Him and his _fucking brother!_ I believed in you, I thought you would be the one. Traitor! Fucking _**coward!**_ "

You take a step back when she lunges forward, as if she can take that magnum from your holster and put a bullet through you both. Maybe you both do deserve it. Maybe she should've been the one to lead the resistance, to guide the others to a safer haven. Maybe she should've been the one strong enough, one enough to kill the heralds, the Father, unravel Project Eden's Gate down to its foundation and liberate Hope County once and for all. You can imagine--it fits her like a glove, it had never really been you. The rookie cop. The first day on the deadbeat patrol promotion.

 _Fucking coward,_ you hear the words, over and over.

"I didn't think I could take it," she wheezes, "I didn't think I could last. I convinced myself, the longer I stay, the more time I could buy you to put a bullet through this fucker's brain. I thought it'd be a long time coming. I thought he would deserve it. I couldn't wait for that day. But now I have. And I was _wrong_."

The moment you cut away her restraints she'll kill you both. But she is physically exhausted, cannot fathom or stomach seeing the two of you in front of her any longer. 

The moment she shuts you both out your hands hang at your sides, meeting John's wary eyes, his lips pursing for your words to come.

"Why didn't you let her go sooner?" 

Your voice is soft again. Quiet against the resonating beams. You see the motes of dusting sparkles against the shafts of filtering bulbs above, shadowing John's face when you block the light stepping forward to him.

"Why keep her here after all this time?"

You want one last answer. Not any answer, but the truth.

"Because she's your friend," John whispers. "Because she would be here anyways, after the Collapse. Because we would have saved her from the very beginning."

" _Saved her?_ " you repeat his words, pointing a finger at Hudson's sobbing form. "You call that _saving?_ You tortured her, John. You killed her. After all this time, after every moment we've been together, after everything I've taught you, shown you, loved you? You didn't save her."

He says nothing, can think of nothing. You give Hudson one last look and understand that this is it--that you can do no more for her, that she wants nothing to do with either of you. To release her now would be too dangerous, would put the Project here at John's Gate at risk. You're reminded of how much she has endured and hate what the most reasonable step is for her now, reaching John's side but not touching him.

"Dose her when she sleeps but don't kill her," you order John. "Take your best men in an unmarked vehicle tonight. Drop her off near Fall's End where someone will find her. And that's the end of this, do you understand me? I want these bodies cleaned up. I want the people who don't want to be here released. I want you to run over the lists of people accepted, and I want you to make sure that they're here because they _want_ to be, not because you or Joseph or Jacob or Faith wanted them to."

John's throat is dry upon this, blinking gently at the harshness, coldness of your order.

"Tell me that you do," you hiss.

Finally, he nods, memorizing the hard angles of your expression, your tone, the angelic halo of soft, incandescent light behind your head. "Yes, Rook."

And you move to leave now, brushing past him, never looking back even when he speaks one more time.

"Where are you going?"

And you keep walking. To where, only you'll know.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the seventh day, maybe you’re strong enough. Ready for him. Only because seated deeply in that intuitive madness, that twisted sixth sense that eludes you in its entire surrealism, you understand that you won’t have much time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> probably need some music for this one! the soundtrack is hella good for writing, [check it here!](https://youtu.be/CTftSjpjJho)

It’s been radio silent for six days straight.

At least to fill that void, John’s been preoccupied with your last orders to clean house, and not in the ways he’d been accustomed to. The bunker has some vacancies, surely, but the ordeal is almost refreshing, _eye-opening_ to the Baptist when running the selected chosen through the filter again. But like so many other holes he’s tried to fill, construct, invent, it’s never enough to truly remind him that you’ve been gone for over a week straight.

Your absence, to be expected, has consequences on the project. For a great part of that week John had attempted to stave off the inevitable involvement of his prophet brother into this fiasco he’d fashioned from his own hands, this so-called monster long in the making. Who else was he to turn to when you refused his radio calls, his pathetic begging, the way his voice cracks after the silence drags on for far too long?

The eldest Seed had been firm in his own decision on the matter after confirming that you hadn’t dropped in near the Whitetail Mountains at all, nor had his hunting party picked up any trace of your existence. Like some vanishing grace you’ve managed to elude every gaze planted at each corner of the valley, the Henbane, Joseph’s own little private world. Like you had been wiped clean from the bloody slate, away from his reach, and John can’t even be sure or not if you’re _still alive_ out there.

It takes much convincing and placating from Jacob of all people, but he reassures his baby brother that you’re resourceful, smarter than that to be offed one way or another. And there’s something else that the redheaded Seed brings up, something that almost burns in admonishment as he leans against the worn, rusting balcony in his room of the veterans’ center, cigarette smoke pouring through his words.

“Have you considered,” Jacob brings up, flicking his spent stub over the rail, “that she doesn’t _want_ to be found?”

Surely not forever, though to John that prospect is already a terrifying potential climbing rather quickly to the top of his list. And yet John has to be reminded--reminded that you need space, time alone, time away from _him_ and the cult and this whole disaster of pure _mindfuckery_. Wherever you’ve decided to do this at, you’ve succeeded--John hasn’t an inkling, not even a lead as to where you’ve hidden yourself.

At times, John wonders if you have any fucking clue to the breadth and scope of what you do to him. Like how his heart physically convulses in this pain he can’t seem to put his finger on--a pain that he can only compare to when he’d been separated from his brothers, when he had sat there and taken every verbal and physical beating from the Duncans that he could fathom no more. He thought he had numbed himself from that torture, had filled every inch of those diseased holes with a resolve and resolution comparable to concrete.

That aching sensation resurfaced when he had carried your still, boneless body from the passenger seat of his bullet-riddled truck. The warmth of your blood soaking into the fabric of his vest, drenching that silk blue shirt into a darkened, oily blackness. The way it stained and didn’t seem to scrub off that same night he’d showered after wearing it like a madman’s regalia; it was fitting, perfect against the color of his tattoos, he’d deemed.

Then again when word had been radioed in to him that the truck escorting you back had been hit by Whitetails, and the peggies at his ranch surely haven’t forgotten of the incident since--anyone who was expecting to catch any shut-eye that night had to hope for that dream another time. It had taken even more pacifying from his oldest brother to be calm, collective of himself: _Keep your head together. This is what they want, for you to lose your cool, your head. She wouldn’t want that, and neither should you._

It’s then do the words of some sociologist aficionado with a thinning hairline come whispering back to him, _reminding_ John of his own tense fears of the worst to come. Every reason why he was afraid of you gone, every moment and concept of you leaving him for good.

 _Abandonment issues_.

Two words he generally wouldn’t find himself coupling together, at least to describe himself, but even he has his own vices. Like how oddly quiet, empty it feels without your voice filling every inch of the four walls of his ranch. How strange it is for him to rest into his pillows and find the other side of the bed vacant of your body, your warmth, the way your fingers would trail in wonder against the curve of his cheek as you told him _I’m still here. Sleep, I’ve got you_. 

And the morning sentiment is just another waiting reminder--the fact that you’re not there when he abruptly awakens, no sound of the running faucet or the tell-tale murmur of you brushing your teeth in his bathroom, poking your head out the doorway to check on him when the bed creaked as he sat up in it. John used to pride himself on the loneliness of his ranch--his own personal bubble, the occasional guests he had to host but who he never intended to let stay for long.

He still has what few things that are yours still lying around the house, leaving them untouched, hoping that at some point he would come back to the ranch and find them moved from their spots.

They don’t, no matter how much thought and effort he endlessly pours into the mistakes he believes he understands he’s made. He’d betrayed your trust, the very pride and love you hadn’t been afraid to give him. And he’d been selfish enough to allow it to continue, to remain unchanging in his ways despite your efforts to guide him into being a better man than he can be.

No atonement had taken place, this simple fantasy that had been stretched to its limit, and bending had come to break.

And if John still thinks he has time to change, has time to even reconcile, then he doesn’t have long to do so.

 

 

Every sunset is the same in theory. Certainly with variation, with weather, with season, but always within the same sky for the past eons this world has come to pass. Few things on this earth are so immovable, defining, yet naturally forgettable such as the nightfall.

Maybe the idea is that you’ll always see another one the next day, right?

It’s an idea that won’t be true for long, masked and suffocated by the vision of mushroom clouds and imminent nuclear fallout in a future unknown. But today, tonight, you don’t want to forget it, can’t will yourself to. How not a speck of cloud floods the event horizon. That gradient mist of scarlet shade deepening into what soon will become that surrealistic midnight blue, hovering between that threshold of sunlight. The soft breeze against the denim of your sherpa-lined jacket, the nearness of the weather’s crisped air prepared to turn into the winter season.

_A Christmas winter? Or a nuclear one?_

One of the many things you’ve been pondering all week. And on the seventh day you’re still not so sure--thinking about the project, of where you stand between these factions, of your friends, Hudson, the so-called non-believers. And though you tried not to think of John, hearing that crackling static of his pleading voice over the radio chatter on your frequency was another battle entirely. 

In the end you didn’t have much choice but to rip the batteries out for the time being until the literal silent message was clear enough, and hopefully if he didn’t understand it, someone else would.

On the seventh day, maybe you’re strong enough. Ready for him. Only because seated deeply in that intuitive madness, that twisted sixth sense that eludes you in its entire surrealism, you understand that you won’t have much time.

The sun is barely beneath the horizon when you decide to push off from your ATV, boots sinking into the damp soil as the engine ceases to rumble entirely from the switch of a key. Every conversation, every point of manipulation and want and love had been done exclusively within John’s playing field, his idea of the cards and what to deal next. 

No more. You need your own hallowed ground, a place where the advantage is yours. Where the truth can lay uncovered, just as he’s laid his own sins to you, just as you’ve laid bare your soul to him.

The grass has grown back in spots and patches, but the faded ivory paint of the barn door barely holds itself together on its hinge. Every soft breeze pushes it ever so gently, this soft squeal of worn bolts and metal. Your gloved fingers reach where a hole the size of a rifle round had shot clean through right above your eye-level--a height just enough to have potentially buried itself into John’s skull had you not done your part.

The wood is sturdy here as you draw your fingers downwards, gripping the handle with less force than needed. One side of the barn doors gives way easier than the other, so you leave it be, that quiet, murky, and damp air rushing against your skin in ghost-like tendrils.

The red carpet that leads to the ruined podium and halves this house of worship in two is stained and crumpled with debris. Datura flowers wrinkled and dried have loosened and grown limp to the floor, scattered across the runner. Floor candelabras have long-since blown out, red and white wax inched down to nothing. Few pews are unmarred with holes, long-dried blood, but there’s not a body in sight. Everything had been left untouched, unblemished--even the somewhat lopsided podium is exactly where it stands, the upturned table beside it.

The only ashen light that filters this room is the lancet window centered in the far back of the stage, bathing the darkened church in modest, humble radiance. And with each step you’re assaulted, flashed with these fleeting thoughts. The rancid stench of bodies left for days still lingers, but only temporarily. Spent bullet casings roll from beneath your boot heels, lurching under the pews and multitude of other shells that lay dormant there.

You imagine the bodies of both resistance and cult being milled out of here in the passing days, weeks of retrieval. From either side, you’re still not so sure. By the time you reach the elevated step up to the podium, the vision almost clouds, momentarily fades where the light here is purer. Vibrant.

And you laugh. Just a puff of breath through your lips, but a laugh nonetheless as you stand behind the podium, boots planted where the Baptist had stood preaching, and stare down at the white leather-bound book that still lays perfectly placed and pristine on the sloped surface of it.

Nothing defaces it--only the natural blessings of time, a thin film of gray dust on its otherwise immaculate pages.

Your fingers delicately sweep away at where John had been interrupted: on chapter six, verse five.

_So I looked, and behold, a black horse, and he who sat on it had a pair of scales in his hand._

This man whose life, whose original intent and purpose was bounded, tied to your own. Whose existence was balanced and dependent on each other’s survival, atonement. And was Joseph right? Are you still John’s _balance_ , that alleged _change of force_ in him? Had Joseph foreseen any of this and let it play out as it should be? Out of all the voices of reason, should he be the one you should be calling this judgement to, prophet to prophet?

Something within you, not that logical side of your skull, nor even that expressing emotion, can’t seem to place that answer. But somewhere in between that precarious equilibrium, that ambidextrous hold between the two can you only place your answer. _No. This decision is yours alone._

That deep, hardwired, primitive survival instinct within you sees safety inside those bunker walls. But you have to take into account of Joseph’s prophecy--the seven years that should come to pass before your emergence back into the irradiated earth, this Montana sunset that you can only remember by distant memory now.

You think of the numbers, the families, the rations and supplies you have stocked for the years to come. Every contingency and concern possible--gas leaks, water filtration system failures, fires, weather hazards, shortages, diseases, deaths, funerals, childbirth, radiation exposure, uprisings, if the bunker can withstand a direct nuclear detonation at all. It’s not even the last of it; it won’t be one of the firsts. You’re scared-- _scared_ for that absolute unknown, for imminent failure, for putting so many lives at risk all for nothing.

Having faith alone is all well and good--but to have so many followers, so many _believers_ displace that faith into _you?_

You know you can’t do this alone. Not without a crutch, not without the other side to balance that scale into proper place. If not for John, at least for _them_ ; your friends, this new family of yours to which you can call home. And you don’t know why it’s all so overwhelming, such a tremendous burden that you feel those welling tears urge up into the corner of your eyes again.

That long-abandoned switch of the radio attached to your belt finally, after days, crackles to life. You know John too much for your own good--well enough to know when he’s ready to lay in bed, though since your absence you’re not entirely sure if he’s snuggled underneath his covers at the regular time anymore.

But you try anyways, lifting the radio up to your lips as you hear the soft frequency buzz in the acoustics of the empty, abandoned church, breath hanging by a thread as you press the button to speak.

You close your eyes, wondering why his name sounds like this breathless prayer for a saint that is nothing like the man you trusted. 

“John?”

Nothing happens on the other end for a good few seconds. Crumbling, warped static waiting for feedback, and you’re a little worried something must have happened to render him tardy when he’s usually so superbly timed on these radio calls.

You almost dial to Jacob’s frequency when you hear it--the crackle of the other end, the almost tired, bleary and warm sound of John’s voice springing to life.

“ _Rook? Are you alright?_ ”

He sounds utterly… exhausted. Like he hasn’t slept a wink, voice hoarse, the way it gets when he’d wake up after you in the morning, pressing his face into the warmth of your chest.

It’s a thought you quickly crush and stamp out like this spreading fire, remembering every pain, every lie he’s presented to you. You’re certainly no angel in comparison--you’re no saint, either, a sinner through and through, but even he can’t be fully canonized for his deeds.

“ _Rook? Say something, talk to me._ ”

You hear the desperation without needing to see those blue eyes, that rider on the black horse, scales in his hand.

“I’m waiting for you at the church. We need to talk.”

You imagine he’s pacing, trying to put what’s left of his crumbling life back together, and you’re the metaphorical glue that’s missing and preventing him from doing so.

“ _Church? Which church? Stay where you are, I’m--_ "

“You know which one, John. There’s only one that matters now, between us. Where it all started with you and me. No one else. I’ll be waiting.”

And you shut off the radio in its entirety before he has the chance to speak, pacing over to take a seat on the elevated step, only anticipating his arrival.

Something tiresome, loathsome, almost overbearing twists itself into your gut, chokes your lungs as you rest weary bones against bones. Your elbows leaning against your knees, heels of your gloved palms pressed into the dampness of your teary eyes. How do you answer for the indefinite? For the selfishness of a man who only wanted to show you the side you wanted, yet could still dish out the atrocities forever instilled upon him and within him?

You feel the burn of his tattoo, the matching, minimalistic bishop to the rook he has placed on his forearm. But there’s another you had received without his knowledge in your absence, your fingers reaching to peel off your uniform gloves to bear witness to that third sin in neatly scrawled cursive below your pinky, just against the side of your hand.

 _Pride_. Not like the carved tough love of _wrath_ intended to bring out the worst monstrosities within you, jagged in its twisted penmanship. Not like that primitive nature of _lust_ , of pure, imminent attraction. You don’t get to choose who you love; you suppose that’s where all faults begin otherwise.

But you can take accountability for your actions. This _pride_ above your palm-clad rosary, this concept that you could have changed a man like John Seed at all. That you alone were enough in this endeavor, that perhaps all this time he was simply acting as the chameleon to fit into the mold you desired. He’s good at that. He’s been _taught_ that, not formally by his adoptive parents, but on his own and as an instinctive and reflexive measuring tool of survival.

And your heart is full of twisted barbs, spirals in this disgustingly painful way: how much of it was even _real?_

Your answer lies in the rumbling of an engine outside after nearly half an hour passes, the high beams inching and spilling through the crack of the doorway.

A silhouette peers from the ruined carpeting, the dried white petals and bullet casings that scatter above it. The shadow he casts is much larger than the man himself, and you listen carefully. To that delicate sound of the buds crunching beneath each of his wary steps. The way another spent shell rolls quietly off the carpeting onto the wooden beams.

You turn your gaze from where it’s been planted between your boots, catching those tiny airplanes of his trench coat. The same pattern he has tattooed below his hand and against his wrist. His sleeve covers it, but your own motif lies there, the rook to his bishop, just below the beautiful planes.

He wants to be within an arm’s reach of you, but you won’t let him. You won’t _permit_ him, especially when your gaze lands him right in his tracks that warns him not to.

You want him to witness, like he’d expected from you so long ago, what he’s done. To observe those tired circles beneath reddened eyes. That glassy, thousand-yard stare where the tears already run against the curve of your cheeks. In all the time you’ve spent with him, despite all the other deliberate pains he’s put you through, this endless drive for atonement, your tears have never been due because of _him_.

And now that they are, you won’t allow him that mercy to touch you.

One of your palms wipes hastily at your cheekbone, leaning your weight against weathered knees.

“Did you do what I asked?” you hoarsely call out to him, breaking the silence.

He blinks like he’s been transfixed, breaking his gaze briefly to glance at the magnum strapped to your chest beneath the sherpa-lined fabric of your jacket. It takes him another moment to process your expecting words, nodding to confirm this.

“Is she alive?”

“Yes. We dropped her off in a field near Fall’s End. I saw to it myself.”

“And the others?”

“Are ready. The bunker’s prepared for us, I’ve made it much more… presentable to your tastes. We’ve had a few leave the cause with no repercussions. Vacated spots left room for others to join, but…”

“But what?”

John fidgets, hands at his sides, those tattooed sins flexing with each clench of his fingers. He seems a little breathless, still unfamiliar to those tear-stained cheeks of yours, before murmuring, “I’ve been waiting for you.”

And you pause, meeting those cool blue eyes, that almost childlike, boyish contemplation of untapped _tenderness_ laid there. You still remember what he’d said all those months ago, can feel the rushing pain of seeing you this way in his own being. The way the lancet window filters in that pallid light and graces that weary, still youthful look he carries.

But you aren’t blind. Not anymore.

“What do you want from me, John?” 

You ask this question, unblinking, steady, sincerely probing. What does the Baptist want? What does he intend to do now? Do you expect him to beg for forgiveness, to make another empty promise?

The inquiry seems to throw him off course, his dark brows raising in the soft light. Many questions he’s been given he always seemed to have an answer for. Who could have anything and everything he could ever want, limited only by the scope of his yearning dreams. Whose passion and hobbies lay waiting in that same forgettable sky; whose faith is habitually questioned; whose fate is ultimately prophesized, entwined, and interwoven with your own.

“I’m sorry.”

You shake your head, feeling those tears dry. “That’s not an answer.”

“I know. After everything, I know it’s not enough. It still won’t be.”

“Then answer it, John. What do you want from me?”

He exhales a shaky breath, like the solution itself is too physically imposing. This is your ground, your story. This is where it all began, in this very church, where you had simultaneously made your own choice and chained your autonomy to him within the same moment. 

And it’s the same place where you will undo it.

“I need you,” he finally chokes out, like he’s helplessly prepared to see his knees on that blood-stained carpet against those bullets and petals. “I need _you_. What else is there to say? Without you I am _lost_ , Rook, I can’t be one enough.”

_There’s that balance, that precarious tipping force. But he’s wrong. John was wrong all this time._

You finally rise to stand, glancing at the lancet frame filtering in that holy light, to the dusted pages of the bible left on the podium. It’s not John’s personal copy anymore per se, he has plenty of copies distributed throughout the county. Yet you reach for it, drawn to it, even if it’s the same as many others. This is what John saw just moments before you’d thrown him down to the floor with your own body before he became a live target, this verse he preaches, the only testifying witness left of what you had been before the start of this all.

The pages shut together, knocking up dust in the beams of light as you take it.

“You don’t need me, John. Not like this, not like how you want it. Not yet.”

Those blue eyes are narrowed, confused, _hurt_ by this admission, but he _listens_ , and that’s all you can ever ask for.

“You’ve changed, but only for me. Not for yourself, not for those around you. This has to be from your own doing, your own initiative, not mine.”

You wonder how you both are still here--how John’s actions haven’t bled into your own, how Joseph’s vision hasn’t come to smite either of you after coming this far. It should have happened long ago, long before it could come down to this. And yet the distinction is still clear, still valid in this moment of guidance.

John appears visibly breathless, lightheaded in the face of judgement.

“What are you saying?” he poses, eyes upon you. Broken, _pained_. “Is this over?”

From where he stands you are taller than him, the etheric radiance eclipsed by your frame where you tower in the center of the window.

“Can you show me otherwise?” you question back. “I’m not leaving the project, if that’s what you’re asking. I’m not leaving your plans, your bunker, whatever this prophecy has in store for us. I don’t claim to be holy, I’m not your brother… but something needs to change. And I’m not the right person for that, John. Only you can do this.”

It’s deceiving he has to even word it that way-- _is this over?_ Is it really? Is it the only plausible choice of action, or is it selfish to want to see him be better than what he is? Because you’re not the only one who believes he’s capable of such a thing, even if it’s by a marginal difference. You hate to see him being driven by the only acts of love that he’d been ingrained, instilled, literally and psychologically beaten into. That had been done _years_ in the making, those cultivated, poisonous seeds that have grown and curled around the garden’s edge. 

It’s not a matter of planting new ones or uprooting it anymore--it’s a matter of maintaining it, tending to it in all its beauty.

John’s gaze looks almost lost, stunned by your confession, and you see it just as he feels it--the way his eyes turn glossy, _teary_ in the soft heavenly glow. That same exact expression you’d caught him with when Joseph had interrupted your _baptism_ , that hatred curling into his restless words, the admonishment and boyish shame he’d been blessed with.

“You’ve given me no reason to stay, John. But I know you can be better. And when you are, I’ll be waiting for you.”

So you’ll still be around him, working with him, and if that idea isn’t torture enough you don’t know what is. It could be worse. But you aren’t gone--he has that going for him at least, even if you’ve drawn the line in the sand and won’t let him jump over that gap to get to you. This atonement is his only, not yours, not a shared redemption.

You step down from the stage, footsteps quiet as you move around his silent form, but he knows better than to reach out for you.

“Are you coming back?”

To the ranch is your assumption, and even that prospect doesn’t seem like a good idea in the making anymore.

“No. I’ll pick up my things later, just need a few loose ends to tie up. Are we meeting up at the compound before we close the gates?”

“We are. Same time, same location, a week from now.”

“Then I’ll see you there, John.”

He doesn’t stop you when you leave, ivory book in hand as you wedge yourself out of the doorway. Doesn’t stop you when you eye his vehicle, knowing how dangerous it is for someone of his status out here to come find you out on his own. He’s parked beside your ATV, and though the prospect of his home sounds much warmer, much more inviting than the trailers you’re renting out, you know better than to cave in.

When you drive off the sunset has vanished into that rich, dark blue sky studded with stars. And that, you deem, is unforgettable compared to the vanishing grace of the sun.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You’ve spent all this time preparing for it, this swan song of a catastrophe. Have heard it all over the news of bioweapons being deployed worldwide, what had happened to Moscow. You had to see this all coming, and yet…
> 
> “ _This is not a drill. Repeat, this is not a drill._ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this summarizes the first half--if you haven't noticed already, the chapters have been extended! ;)
> 
> music recs for this chapter? definitely has to be oh john (reinterpretation)...

In the twenty-four hours that you have to mobilize, it’s a surprisingly cloudless day followed by the gentle morning frost.

The fading grass grows crisp and dewy beneath your boots, deputy uniform tucked away and sitting in a drawer back in your bunker’s room. The former arrangements John had prepared were switched last second on your part; any additions of yours to his room were promptly moved to a spare one across the bunker, smaller in comparison, but to none of your disapproval. Everyone that mattered had been accounted for--everyone but the last few that none of the other Peggies had taken much account of, though with no short of reason.

Another loud splash and hiss at your back has you turning to attention, bemused eyes finding Peaches shaking off the cool waters of the lake. It took some good tracking skills, word of mouth, and plenty of bait courtesy of Miss Mable to find the mountain lion again, prowling and feasting on cult and resistance alike, but you managed to catch the feline skulking and swathed in dirt around the Whitetail Mountains.

As much as you’d love her to be sticking around John’s Gate, you imagine its inhabitants wouldn’t take to her as much as you do. Hence, you come to a conclusion in someone else who would--someone else who wouldn’t mind or be swayed by the idea of the natural tendencies of a big cat. Binoculars raised, you come into view of the impregnable manor of a fellow Seed, Peaches’s ears twitching as you urge her to follow your heels.

Jacob Seed is nothing short of amazed by your unplanned visit, much less with a feline who has probably snacked on his men in your absence. Wolves are more of his specialty, of course--he invites you into the veterans center to shield from the bitter morning cold, a scarf clad around his neck and his sleeves rolled down to meet proper winter gloves. All the while he eyes the purring mountain lion at your side that follows you without even needing a leash, though you don’t seem to sense his apprehension as Peaches tails behind the towering Seed brother like a loyal companion.

“Coffee?” he offers, and you can see his puffing breath even within shelter. No heater; you imagine this place hasn’t had it running for quite some winters. That, and Jacob’s ready to move to his permanent residence for good. “John gave me a machine earlier. Pretty sure a hand-me-down.”

You don’t know what John needs a new espresso machine for, but you take what you can get. Jacob sets a mug of black coffee in front of you and takes a seat across the mess hall, aware of the kitchen staff nervously locking the door behind the counter as if it could prevent the mountain lion sitting atop the picnic table from entering in.

“So,” he starts, finally gazing over at Peaches, who licks eagerly at her paw. “You gonna explain the house cat?”

One sip of the coffee and the warmth is already inviting. “This is Peaches. I didn’t think John would appreciate her in his bunker, so…”

“So you didn’t bother to ask him.”

You send him a look across the table that screams _I don’t think I really need to._ “She’s good. Cleans up after herself, only have to change the litter box a couple times a week, low maintenance on the food. Even have the recipe for her snacks, she loves ‘em.”

“And?”

You smile, running a gloved hand against Peaches’s forehead, her purr rumbling through the table. “And she belongs to you now.”

The eldest Seed isn’t miffed or put off by the concept--he seems a little doubtful at first, surely, but one glance at the feline and the wolf himself is sighing in defeat.

“Under one condition,” you prompt him suddenly, mug in hand. “No Bliss. These are my babies, I want nothing done to them and you best be prepared for my _wrath_ after these seven years if you do.”

You won’t take any credit for the big cat’s domestication, merely fed her violent appetite for destruction afterwards; tapping into her natural intuitive touch with mother nature had all been her doing, and you haven’t forgotten that Jacob intended to _recruit_ your mountain lion into his pack.

“She does fine on her own,” you explain, motioning for Jacob to at least be friendly with his new companion. “She’ll listen to you, don’t worry. Isn’t that right?”

Even so, Jacob appears confounded, repeating, “… _Them?_ ”

Ah, right. He probably thinks the big girl is pregnant, and while the prospect of Jacob potentially having to deal with _that_ miracle would be strangely charming, it’s most certainly far from the truth. Without sparing words, you excuse yourself from the table, informing him you’ll be right back, though don’t mention any time that he’d like.

It takes some moments for your next return, so Jacob doesn’t waste much effort playing meet and greet with his new house cat. What starts at first as a friendly charade of Peaches running the length of her side and cheek against his calves ends with her sharpened claws digging into his back, tearing into the fabric of his thick jacket.

The redheaded Seed doesn’t seem put off or bothered from his newspaper where he’s seated in his room, even when she reaches up to bite and shred through the musty print into bite-sized pieces. His sigh is heard by no one, though Peaches seems content enough in her new abode, purring at his side until your footsteps coming approaching from down the hall.

It’s a sound accompanied by even heavier footsteps, _multiple_ footsteps, and you more or less barge in through his door with a gusto comparable to the next companion that attempts to squeeze through the frame.

You appear winded as if you’d off and gone _mountaineering_ in this weather, cheeks bitten cold even underneath your sherpa-lined denim. “Here’s big boy!”

At first Jacob assumes you’re addressing him, which would be ill-met but not totally inaccurate per se. Though he’s spent enough time around Hope County, Jacob has never actually _met_ the renowned Cheeseburger face-to-face. You wouldn’t really say he’s a fan--perhaps in ways that would probably constitute as _kidnapping_ and _drugging_ , more like, but an admirer nonetheless. The grizzly bear is even more astonishing up close, or as close as Cheeseburger can get squeezing and roaring through the too-small doorframe.

The feline beside the eldest Seed appears bored, monotonous as Cheeseburger finally jams through and takes the bottom half of the door frame with him.

What silence follows Jacob quickly shatters. “That’s a bear.”

You raise a finger to counter that. “Not _a_ bear. _Your_ bear.”

More silence. “I’m not running a _zoo_ , this isn’t some Noah’s Ark.”

“Ironically, isn’t this what we’re essentially _doing?_ ”

Had you been anyone else he would have tossed you out the balcony to his judges, but Jacob is patient, merciful to you more so than anyone else. He won’t say it and you don’t feel the need he has to admit it--you’re _family_ , in ways that run deeper than blood, and it shows. You’ve used yourself as a literal meat shield for the sake of his own brother, vowed to protect him when he himself couldn’t be there to do so. 

And though Jacob has spent much of his time curbing away from the need to voice these superfluous thoughts, he at least has the audacity to welcome in kindness when he sees it.

Without further instruction, Cheeseburger snuggles himself at home on Jacob’s couch, the faded upholstery stretching and sinking to accommodate the yawning bear.

Jacob reaches over for another newspaper, sending Peaches a look where she’s seated at his feet should she get any ideas. “And what’s his meal plan? A recruit a day?”

“You wouldn’t even last three years, much less _seven_ with that idea.”

“Worth a shot. Can’t promise or guarantee their survival, but…” A sigh. A sigh because he actually _has_ to make a promise. “They’ll be priority.”

No need for thanks, nothing that has to be said because he already knows you’re grateful for his compliance. Instead you drift over to the opened balcony doors that serves as overwatch of the courtyard, surveying the still-moving trucks that pass back and forth to unload the last crates towards Jacob’s armory. 

The once lively quad filled with equipment and material alike is now emptying out hour by hour, and even the state of Jacob’s room is barer than usual. The pin board and walls are scrubbed clean of any newsprint clippings or collages or conspiracies, meticulously mobilized into what you assume is his own room down in the bunker.

The pencil-to-paper scratching is all you need to know he’s preoccupied with another word puzzle, but he’s very much still listening and ready to talk.

“Speak to John yet?”

Not since that last moment face to face, no, and he surprisingly knew better than to radio in either. “No. I didn’t want to distract him from any last-minute plans. Keep him focused on everyone else.”

If he’s asking then John must not have told him the truth, the reason behind why you aren’t on regular speaking terms. Are you really surprised, though? Even if John did, would it make much of a difference to his brother who has been victimized, has dished out the lashing, has fought tooth and nail for everything to own up to what he is now? Probably not. 

But John is still his brother, his _baby_ brother all the same. 

“You know, when I enlisted after juvie,” Jacob begins suddenly, focused on his puzzle. “I was only… eighteen? Nineteen at the time when I’d left? John was only a child. Not even four by the time I was deployed.”

Your gloved fingers grip the railing, breath coming out in foggy puffs as you hang on to his every word. “He never told me that.”

“Not surprised. John was adopted. Joseph was aging out from the other boys. We were torn apart… and for a long time, I didn’t think I would see anyone from my family again.”

If things had been different, if you had been born in a distinctive time, much of this would have changed. You know what had been done to John, you’ve _worked_ with children and teenagers who had been victimized, blamed, traumatized by similar yet ignored circumstances just the same as him. You’ve seen the extent of what it can do, what it _has_ done.

“I don’t know what Joseph wants from me. What he intends for the rest of us. Not sure if I still believe in him, but… I do believe in you.”

The record player in his room participated in the movement of all his other belongings, yet in the echoing confines of the space a record skip somehow manages to fire off in your brain.

“I don’t know what my brother did to you. Whatever it is, he probably deserves it. But you do him good, Rook, something he hasn’t had in a long while. Seeing John that last time, crying, wailing… him and Joseph came to me when I was at my lowest. When I was homeless, jobless, but seeing him again in _years_ … it was eye-opening, you know? Seeing your baby brother now this grown guy, this lawyer. This new man altogether.”

It means Jacob missed everything. He missed John before he could even enter preschool, his teenage years, his first time in college, his graduation and acceptance into law school. How do you recover from a shock? Does John even remember half of what Jacob does, what he did for him, what he was willing to sacrifice because he hated to see those fat tears rolling down John’s chubby cheeks?

You wonder if John sees Jacob with any ounce of that hard, brotherly love that he does. If he can recognize it at all.

“You said to me before you cared about him, Rook,” Jacob murmurs, leaning back against his seat. “You still do. I’ve promised to take care of your own, so do me one in return, would you?”

“Anything,” you tell him.

“Look out for him. _Keep_ looking out for him, do what I couldn’t. It’s all I ask.”

And like what John had preached to you when you’d both been behind the iron sights of one another, _it will be difficult_. These are not lofty promises whatsoever, and only time itself has the power to heal what he had done to you. You know John can change, but it can’t be because you said so. It has to be something within him, intrinsically shifted by his own will. You would wait as long as it would take, just as Jacob will.

So you nod, turning away from the rail where the lone wolf sits perched on his throne. _But it will be **worth** it_ , you remind yourself. You can’t expect things to change overnight. Swift revolutions have had painstaking consequences, but no less impacts or impressions to cultivate and promise later. Ideas that were once rejected, deemed impossible, may grow to be flourished, finally accepted.

It’s like these words can put him to rest as Jacob looks momentarily relaxed, genuinely content.

“I will. I promise.”

And it’s silent again, just the purring snooze of Peaches at his heels, of Cheeseburger turning Jacob’s couch into a temporary home. In the crisp, cloudless skies you can see the contrails of a plane and knowing that all the Project’s gasoline and fuel are being siphoned towards the bunkers, you’re a little miffed about who’s still flying around at this time. The advantages of Jacob’s mountains are that, like the walls of a room with good acoustics, so too are these mountains.

You hear the plane just as you see it, tumbling and diving and maneuvering with the grace of a practiced bird in flight against the midday sun. And at that point you already have your answer, because no one else in Hope County has that sleek, midnight black paintjob. No one else has the power to waste precious resources just to squeeze in _one last flight_ across the open, airy skies of this world but him. And, well… you can’t exactly fit a plane in an underground bunker, much less _need_ one.

He did it--he got his replacement plane. And for what, when the world is gonna end tonight?

From here you doubt John can see you. You remember distinctly shooting out his copilot with a lucky strafe more than anything, the frustrated howl of John over the radio when you did. You remember whittling his original plane down till the engine completely stalled, forcing him to eject mid-flight. You never forget a second that leads up to it, dragging his body through the mud, driven by nothing but rage and hate and _wrath_ that couldn’t truly be your own.

You remember the pity, the desire to _know_ instead of to kill. You remember it now, _remind_ yourself of it, because things have never always been this way.

You part ways from Jacob and intend to join up together with the heralds in one final arrangement when the time nears, collecting one last companion of your squad, who is now perched eagerly on the opened window of your borrowed Project truck to Joseph’s compound. Boomer, who had been in the care of a few mindful Peggies, had surprisingly been tending to your old pal since your absence, and the lively dog was ever the more enthusiastic by your return.

It’s evening by the time you make it, Joseph’s compound stripped clean of all its resources. The day has been favorable, alarmingly calm despite the growing agitation you feel of this impending doom. You may not have Joseph’s visions, but you do share them, give or take. What little you know of this imminent danger is suddenly a conception of what it would be, when it would happen, how quickly this world you know will disintegrate beneath that blazing pyre of catastrophe until nothing but scorched earth is left in its wake.

These thoughts are the antithesis of what your final days are, bright and clear and only another reminder of what is soon to come. The water’s edge near the compound is soft, rhythmic as you approach through the wrought-iron gates and barbed wire fences, Boomer in tow. You’re not expecting jokes to be shared, smiles to pass, at least in the sense that any of you are truly _content_ that this is going to happen. The air is so palpable, so tense that you fear someone will back down altogether, but no one is going alone.

Faith is the first to turn to you, a knitted, thick scarf looped round her neck with a winter coat to boot. She’s wearing actual _shoes_ , and you can’t stop yourself fast enough--you laugh aloud as she reaches for your hands, her brows wrinkling in confusion.

“Think this is the first time I’ve seen you with _sneakers_ on, much less socks,” you confess, taking note of the neatly done laces as she does.

Is this what you’ve come down to? The world is about to end, and you’ve found the strangest fascination in the fact that she’s dressed for the weather and finally wearing shoes, beanie round her skull, looking the epitome of _freezing_ from this chilly weather and not a drop of snow in sight. 

And yet you’re not so sure--is this out of tension, some coping mechanism for what is bound to happen?

The sound of your supposed happiness, your laughter draws the attention of the somber crowd--the three brothers beyond Faith, and you meet that strange and beautiful gaze of John like some perceptible force. Like that very first moment all those months ago near these same walls.

He too is clad in a scarf that only rests around his shoulders, though it’s beyond you why he hasn’t bothered to button up his trench coat _or_ his shirt beneath it. Nothing about him appears fearful, distraught, only quiet, peace, and patience. Yet you have never forgotten--what you feel, in some strange pull of nature, he feels, too. He must sense what is coming, this extraordinary, unexplainable reckoning.

“Take care of yourself,” you bid Faith-- _Rachel_ , you remind yourself, that’s her name--and _urge_ her because you’ll be unable to do so after this. “Just like you did for me. You can be more than what you’ve been told to be, don’t forget that.”

You don’t want to see any tears. You don’t. And perhaps you move on towards Jacob a little too stiffly, too sharply to hear that stifled intake of Faith’s breath when your hands slip away from hers, but even you aren’t left to any devices. You remember your promise to Jacob, recall his own vows, his own pains, your mutual deference to one another. He doesn’t appear to be the one to want to make the first move and you don’t force it when he sees that glossy hue of your eyes, forcing a smile that seems to stun him further.

In all his long years and experience, you don’t think he’d ever be rightly prepared for your arms to wrap around him. He’s just like you’d imagined--a hulking torso of a man, of surprising warmth, his body stiff at first until he’s helpless to you. 

And--it’s confirmed. Jacob Seed, to your dismay at only figuring it out now, is actually perfect hugging material, his arms around you in a rare case of affection that he seldom dishes out. Like the fires he so represents, he’s a workhorse of a furnace and, well--you’ll be envious of whoever gets to be held by _him_ in any future.

Yet when you withdraw from his embrace you still see that trace of grief, this somberness that envelops you both that this will be it. Maybe seven years will come to pass like nothing. Maybe something could botch it all entirely.

Whatever the case, you want to make sure he knows how you’ve felt.

“I’ll miss you,” you tell him. “We’re making it through this. I need you back too, not just my pets. You’re not alone, Jacob.”

And perhaps you’ve done it--effectively trampled and stolen and ruined those walls he’s built, because Jacob has to turn away for a moment to breathe and clear his throat, shifting from foot to foot.

You leave the old soldier be as Joseph steps into view, dressed for the weather in his padded jacket. And though he appears just as disquieted as the rest of them, you’re his equal on this ground, this earth as you know it. You already know what he wants and beat him to the punch, the reaching of your fingers, the rosary that once belonged upon his own palm clasped against it once more. His forehead touches yours in one final bid, this spark that neither ignites nor fades.

You haven’t had the best relations with the prophet Seed, but you’ve come to understand each other at the very least. And perhaps, like Jacob and Faith, there can be a mutuality borne from more than just this common prophecy. Neither of you mingle or mince words, but his hand in yours in some bid of prayer bestows upon you its impression.

“You feel it, don’t you?” he poses softly behind those blonde lenses. “The Collapse. It’s near. Like a whisper, the edge of a knife on the brink. Pressing into your skin, ready to draw its first blood.”

He can envision it, describe it, witness God’s prophecy in its whole vivid imagination. But he’s right--you do feel _something_ , a pitfall, a hard, hazy drop that will come soon.

“I do.”

Joseph does not release your hand from his, blue eyes an almost odd shade of green from his sunglasses as he closes them shut. “I wanted to apologize. For the things I’ve said earlier, they were unbecoming of me. I only thought… I did not _expect_ these events to unfold the way they did. But it seems, in the end, it was for the better.”

_Forgive and be forgiven, right?_

Now is not the time to burn bridges, but to fortify them, reconstruct and rebuild what must be done. So you nod, letting those words be as they are, to cultivate and plant them into the roots of your garden.

Finally, Joseph relinquishes hold of you, and you lastly turn to John, who, to your surprise, seems almost… _hopeful_. Unexpected of anything much in return, but hopeful nonetheless. A childish curiosity that befits him, the tip of his nose tinging just the slightest of rosy pinks. You imagine that boy from Georgia who had never experienced a true Midwest winter, any true winter at all, and almost smile at the prospect.

But he’s no longer a boy even if he still chooses to act as one at times. It’s not you who gives him words or actions but the other way around, his body coming closer as he seems to beckon you with his eyes what he desires from you, even if it’s just momentarily. You watch that tattooed hand slowly, finally reaches for his neck to where that thin leather hangs around it so securely, so intimately that months ago, in every vulnerable moment, you could have snatched it away in a heartbeat.

Vivid memories flood those blue, homely eyes as he removes the strapped bunker key from his neck intact, reaching for your hand to settle it finally, steadily within your palm.

It’s been weeks since he’s been able to touch you, gloves on or not, but you allow him just this once, his fingers guiding to help yours to curl around his key.

“It’s yours now,” he feels the need to explain. “It’s always been yours. I thought you might… want to be the one to close the gates, Rook.”

After all this time, after every slight, contempt, love, and devotion, its finally in your grasp. What had started and driven this entire madness up the wall, this horrendous wrath that saw no horizon or end in sight. Yet John appears calm, content, _resolute_ with this decision, one that he feels firm and arrested in. One he doesn’t have to question, meeting your gaze as you keep it around your neck, the leather warm, reminding.

The family bid their final farewells, their promises, their hopes. It’s quiet, chillingly peaceful the entire drive back to John’s Gate, the roads even and smooth with you behind the wheel and John in shotgun. No one in the truck complains about the cracked open window for Boomer, who seems oblivious, eager against the chilly wind sweeping his broken fur. 

Peggies and families alike are flooding into the bunker by the time you and John pull into the courtyard, guiding and herding the last few through the so-called gates that still promises safety. You wonder how Jacob and Joseph are faring at his armory, how Faith is handling her own gate. About Joey, Grace, Jess, Jerome, Mary May--the many others you’d been acquainted with and would reject the imminent danger to come if only they had come to see the truth.

What are you so afraid of, then, when it’s finally just you and John standing together at the threshold?

It’s quiet in every eerie sense, looking to one another in that stillborn silence. How the branches of nearly leafless trees sway against a strong gust, flocks of birds of all sorts soaring overhead and further. You don’t know where to, if they’ll ever choose to stop. You see more wildlife than usual breaking from the tree lines, the whistling of some torrential storm, that clear sky as you raise an arm to shield from the tempest itself.

It has to be _miles_ away, but the flash is blinding--heavenly. But the sound that accompanies it is harsh, ugly, and dreadful. Like some blacksmith’s hammer striking into the anvil of the earth, resonating its impact.

You know what this is, even if you don’t want it to be.

Smoke churns the plumes of a mushroom cloud in the far distance, and you’re stunned, breathless even when John’s hand takes yours to drag you into the threshold and safety of his bunker. It’s mesmerizing even in its devastating horror, brain on autopilot as you fumble to help John secure and engage the bunker door into place. The hissing of its airtight confirmation, how you can’t seem to drag your eyes away from the pane to view the flattening of trees and dusty smoke travel across the grass.

“Rook,” John rasps, pulling you to him, pulling you away from the door and trying to focus your attention on anything but what’s behind you both. “Don’t look at it, _don’t._ ”

The lights flicker, a harsh gust of wind slamming violently into the steel of the door that’s holding it back.

“He was right,” you murmur to him as the emergency lights flood the doorway in beams of revolving scarlet. “We all thought he was crazy, we thought--”

You hear the emergency radio on the speakers flooding and echoing throughout: “ _Attention, attention: this is the emergency broadcast system…_ ”

How is it, by the end of this all, it’s John who has to comfort you?

“ _Take shelter immediately. Take shelter immediately._ ”

Every pass of the light throws you both in that red flame, then darkness again until you can finally fixate on his blue eyes. The way his fingers are kneading into your shoulders, trying to read your expression as you do his own lips forming words faster than you can comprehend. The same way you grounded him that he’s now trying to do for you.

“I know,” he agrees, can hardly fathom on his own. “I know, we all did. But you understand what we have to do now, don’t you? What this means?”

You’ve spent all this time preparing for it, this swan song of a catastrophe. Have heard it all over the news of bioweapons being deployed worldwide, what had happened to Moscow. You had to see this all coming, and yet…

“ _This is not a drill. Repeat, this is not a drill._ ”

The infrastructure around you groans, the ceiling trembling free of dust around you in a thunderous quake that races through your bones.

And John appears as if he wants to do more, to say more to free that almost distraught look you carry. Yet he stops himself, reins himself in from doing anything further, his hands detaching from your frame to hang at his sides.

At this point, it doesn’t matter who was right or wrong. You can’t point any fingers, to bask in that shame or glory as the emergency broadcast sounds off again.

All that matters now is survival.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whatever’s happening now you can’t will yourself to see, fresh pain blossoming against your belly. But you don’t seem to mind--not when your vision is suddenly filled with John Seed’s face crushing flat against the diamond pattern of the industrial steel, blood between his teeth and a bruise sure to mar that pretty cheek of his.
> 
> _He’s hurt, he’s hurt, God, no, **no** \--_
> 
> You feel your promise to Jacob already falling to shambles. Watch as John’s jaw clenches in pain, blood on his split lip, yet when he turns his gaze over to you he is so… angelic. Untainted. Fallen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just some notes about the time skip:
> 
> \- rook was roughly 27-28 during the events before this! john was 32-33 at the time.  
> \- according to the figurine description of joseph available on the ubi store, 3000 folks would be selected and chosen to be saved. so for the sake of this fic, i'm assuming it's a thousand people per bunker.
> 
> rook: gets stabbed  
> rook: not again
> 
> i promise this is the LAST time rook's ass nearly gets straight murdered she is so TIRED of nearly dying i hope that's properly conveyed in this chapter because bunker life is EXHAUSTING. quick note that there will also be smut next chapter with this time skip charlie hunnam lookin motherfucker, so... rev up those fryers.

**FOUR YEARS LATER.**

* * *

Why the _fuck_ is it always freezing down here?

This perpetual chill is purgatory itself, even with a population nearing the thousands and always hustling on a daily routine. You would think with the constant workload and people you have to meet and greet on a day-to-day basis, feeling those chills of goosebumps under your layers of thick sweaters and jackets would be able to ward off the cold. At least being preoccupied you wouldn’t take much notice of it--like now, with Whitehorse at your side as you head towards the site of what had been reported to you both as _another_ water filtration issue.

You have mechanics and engineers on standby already assessing the issue, which was supposedly some pipe leakage and easy to fix. Can’t be too careful now, though. Even if much of the structure and supplies have been put to good use and continue to do so, no one can afford to let their guard down now. It’s like some hive mind, some colony in which every decision affects the population as a whole; you’re not going to let some “easy-to-fix” water filtration failure topple this entire Project down.

But still. You’re cold. And much of the energy has to be conserved for more important matters than a warm, cozy fire. So you suck it up and draw your arms a little tighter across your chest, Whitehorse passing you a bemused look.

“What’s wrong, Rook?” You hear his teasing lilt before you even have to turn your gaze to him. “You’re shakin’ like a leaf.”

“It’s too _early_ for this shit. This was the last one since, like, _three_ months ago.”

“It’s not so bad, really.”

“Well, you’re free to take on the role of prophet if you want.”

“Mmm… I take it back then.”

“That’s what I thought.”

It’s the Chosen sector of the bunker, and you frankly have half a mind to pull together a meeting for these folks to discuss _why the fuck are you guys breaking one of the most important systems of this facility again?_ A topic that would somehow generate much heated debate if you have any opinions on it--you remember allowing Sharky of all people to lead a discussion forum and, well… that was also his _last_ one to this day.

By the time you make it to the source, shivering and all, you aren’t completely prepared to see John already there and stooped with another mechanic helping to replace the filter.

You pause in step a little too abruptly, surveying the damage--or what’s been properly fixed into place.

Your presence draws John’s attention in a heartbeat, and he nearly fumbles the wrench from his hand and into the filtration itself. He curses for a moment, turning his attention back to it until it's up and running in working order once again.

“…That was fast,” you mention, straying your eyes away from those baby blue eyes. Voice mostly business, as it has been for a very long time when addressing John. “How was the damage?”

“Minimal,” John responds back, standing to his full height to wipe his hands free from any grease. “We caught it just in time, unlike before. We should probably check the water pressure on this and--”

“I can do that,” you interrupt him, arms still secured across your chest. “Are we good here?”

That clipped, almost sharp tone is enough to stop him from speaking further, wringing the tool between those familiar tattooed fingers. In his handiwork, John had to push up the sleeves of his thick, blue knitted sweater up to his elbows, and from here even you can see that soft little rook piece etched into his skin.

John nods ever so slightly, and you take your leave to check on the water pressure as soon as you can.

Whitehorse, all the while, is still at your side, trying to keep in stride with your rather pacing footsteps.

“Slow down, kid. I know you aren’t a fan of the guy, but--”

Nothing the old sheriff could say would make you ever detest him, and you listen because there’s always some wisdom, some nugget of truth within his words. But this is about John--someone you would rather _not_ be the topic of choice right now, and that’s that. Or so you wish it would be.

“What’s there to talk about?” you mention a little too offhandedly, too monotonously. “It didn’t work out. Happens to the best of us.”

By his expression alone, Whitehorse doesn’t seem to buy into that adage, his eyes stern as you fumble around with your keys to the maintenance door down the maze of halls. Considering his own marriage, wouldn’t he understand more than anyone?

“You still care about him,” he states with the simplicity of a known fact.

Your keys slip and drop to the floor in a clatter, cursing yourself as you bend down to reach for them, but Earl stops you, picking them up instead.

“It’s okay, Rook,” he continues on calmly, _acceptingly_. “Frankly, I’d say the poor bastard deserves it, seeing him all kicked around like that. That son of a bitch has some tenacity and patience, I’ll say. How long has it been?”

You purse your lips as the door gives way to the turn of a key, Whitehorse taking the lead as you’re the one left to follow him now. “Four years and a month.”

He whistles out in astonishment. “Christ almighty.”

“You said it.”

He doesn’t touch on it any further, which you’re grateful for, if only because you have to discuss that certain man with Adelaide of all people during your lunch. You literally cannot avoid her no matter how much of an effort you make in a bunker where you’re doomed to cross paths within the same day, much less _years_ at this point.

And speaking of food, it’s as if she’s already had your seat prepped and warmed for your arrival in the mess hall which is teeming with the lunch hour. It’s not much but the stock of rations have done extremely well in the past years, though you suspect a decline in the quality in the coming future. A meal’s a meal, and in your boat that’s good enough, sliding your tray in across from Adelaide who has her chin perched in a palm.

She shoots you a lazy, happy smile, and you’re at least glad _someone_ is down here.

“How’s my buttercup?” she coos, noticing your rather fatigued expression as you stick your straw into a drink pouch. “Long night? No one to keep your bunk warm?”

You shovel some scrambled eggs down your gullet, unfazed by that friendly jab. “That’s what I have fingers for, Addy.”

“Oh, you have got it made, honey. But I think someone else has it for you, too.”

You glance up from your food to find that she’s staring directly over your shoulder, eyes half-lidded like some languid cat, and know by now not to even turn.

She has no qualms because she’s _obsessed_ with how this is all playing out. “He’s staring at you again.”

Despite the additional salt and pepper, the eggs taste rather bland than usual.

“You know,” she continues, biting her lip. “I’m not sure what gets me more: those grays comin’ in his hair, or the fact that John Seed has packed on a healthy weight gain with that bit of thick gut he’s got goin’ on now is really… _sexy_.”

You bend the fork in your grasp and start to chew a _little_ too aggressively.

“I don’t know how you’ve resisted him all this time for _four years_ , honey, but it’s a known fact: that boy has been _celibate_ ever since you shut him down. He’s waiting for you. God, it gets a girl wet.”

She doesn’t have to remind you. She really, _truly_ doesn’t have to remind you exactly what or _who_ you’ve been thinking about, touching yourself over when things get too stressful down here. A part of you drifts into that unknown, that wondering curiosity if John’s done it, too. 

Your intimate life with one another hadn’t been complete roses and softness--he’d been _extremely_ generous in showing you what he knows. Had helped to discover those intimate, private things that you didn’t know about your body, what it was _capable_ of doing, and well… you certainly weren’t the only one getting off from that. With a shaky sigh, you squeeze your thighs together while attempting--and utterly failing--to quell that ache in your screaming loins.

Yeah. Four years has done John Seed a fucking _service_. You don’t even have to look over your shoulder to confirm what Adelaide sees. Those soft, silvery grays coming through his dark hair, which has, in fact, grown much longer than he usually keeps it. The way it isn’t perfectly slicked back anymore, strands of some hairs falling out of place. Every time you see that, you’re seized by the moment to tuck it back behind his ear but think much better of it in hindsight.

And yeah--it’s true. He _has_ put on a healthy weight gain compared to his rather skinny frame during your first meeting. Not without reason though--you’re _happy_ he’s been chowing down, looking after himself, just being _content_ in general without needing you there to hold his hand at every moment. That’s enough for you--to see him just be as is with the people around him, to not be too caught up or dependent upon you. And last you checked, John Seed has even made a few actual _friends_ around the block.

“Seat taken?”

Both you and Adelaide are almost startled from your bones, as if caught sifting through some juicy magazine and have to clamp it shut for good. From the looks of things and the clearing of your throat, the newcomer appears ever patient.

“No! No, go right ahead,” you respond, scooting over when he decides he wants to sit on _your_ side of the bench.

And who is this mystery figure to you? This five-‘o’-clock shadowed man who regularly attends church twenty minutes before it should even begin? This lean but not at all completely unattractive peggy who clearly had a great dentist before the initial Collapse? This pious member who’s considered a tenor in the Hope County Choir and personally prides himself in knowing all the Project’s songs by heart?

He’d introduced himself to you at least two years into the Collapse as _Henry_ \--a bland, if not blasé name that invokes the imagery of white picket fences and a nuclear family posed in front of a house painted a shade of periwinkle that he personally selected. And if Henry isn’t singing in the choir, then he’s generally found some way to attach himself to your hip like this lost puppy searching for approval from its master.

Adelaide’s eyebrows raise by just how _close_ he’s sitting beside you, smiling and laughing and all. And though you answer back with smiles and a politeness borderline _forced_ , you can’t say that you actually _hate_ the guy. The neatness of his trimmed hair and manicured looks is nearly on par with how _John_ used to be obsessed with himself, and the thought of that makes you sigh.

“Are you busy later, Rook?” he quips, looking every bit the perfect, generic boy that many would have prided you take home to marry and bear your children. “I was wondering maybe you could show me around the garden?”

You had your own personal installment on the matter--the greenhouse dedicated to flora, plants, grasses, vegetables, and fruits of all sorts and varieties. All carefully tended to by gardening experts and the scientific and scholarly among you. A new exhibit installed within the center of the gardens houses flowers and succulents of all sizes--from your own choice in some charming gift from the Project to you.

For some reason you turn to Adelaide for help, clearing your throat once again as you attempt to make up some excuse that you _really aren’t feeling that right now._

“Ah, maybe another time. I’ve got other sectors to check on today, we had a failure in one section earlier.”

“I could take you, though!” Adelaide supplies happily, and you breathe a sigh of relief.

“Oh!” Henry shifts, though nothing can be done to stifle that disappointment in his eyes. “That’s quite alright, Addy, thank you though. I have a choir meeting to attend to later anyways.”

_Why John even established that group, you still haven’t figured it out yet. But he’s definitely attracted the right crowd to it. It’s like some fucking Bible Study 2.0._

He finishes up his plate without complaint or further word until he’s ready to stand and leave, to which you and Adelaide preferred to stick around and chat in the mess hall until you had your duties to attend to. You would be content with a simple _goodbye_ or _see you later_ , smiling politely still at the man who couldn’t be any older than you, until he leans down to press a chaste kiss to your cheek.

He’s warm, inviting, and on any other day you would be right--he is the kind of guy you would take home to your mother in that crisp collared polo tucked into the waistband of his slacks. The kiss lingers, as do his lips as he withdraws, smiling a little when you do.

“Don’t work too hard, Rook.”

Both of you watch him the entire time he leaves, a bit of pep in his step even when he’s out the mess hall doors. You finally let out the breath you’ve been holding, chest physically sagging as if the entire encounter had drained your soul.

And Adelaide looks completely stupefied. 

“What the _fuck_ … was that?”

Apparently, the fact that you’d been experimentally testing the waters of the dating pool is mind-blowing.

You shrug with all the nonchalance you can muster. “He’s sweet. Boring, bland… but sweet.”

She doesn’t look convinced. At all. And she can’t let that sit right, no sir.

“And that’s what you like, huh? Boring, bland, and sweet?”

Another shrug.

“Sweetheart, Xander’s _cum_ is boring, bland, and sweet but that boy still gives me a good dicking when I ask for one. You look like the definition of _miserable_ if that cock is comin’ in anywhere near ya.”

Well… you can’t really deny the truth now, especially once served and preached by the pious queen herself.

“Now when you and Baby Blue Eyes over there were hittin’ it? God, it’s like watching the perfect porno.”

Yes, you are flooding with embarrassment at this exact moment with the memories of John, you, and his smartphone in the midst of one of your _trysts_ , letting out a nervous chuckle.

_Shit. Shit, fucking **fuck** , he still has the videos. Why didn’t you ask for copies before all of this?_

Adelaide sighs, collecting her stuff together onto her tray like she still can’t believe or fathom the scope of how long you and John haven’t even been on _normal_ speaking terms with each other yet. Aside from the mandatory meetings and obvious exchanges of information, nothing non-professional has been shared between you two. No casual meetups, not even an attempt on your end to see things mended. Did they really need to be, though?

Adelaide’s words seem to answer this, her eyes peering over your shoulder again with even greater emphasis between her teeth: “He’s _still_ staring at you, babe.”

You said you would wait for him, and it’s true. You don’t know what this thing is with Henry you’re having--something casual, flirty, friendly, but not a commitment. And if he’s looking for one he’ll be sorely disappointed because you aren’t ready for that, you’re in no position to be in one with someone you barely feel that connection to.

It’s nothing like John, it pales in _comparison_ to what you had.

You turn to look over your shoulder, finally, before Adelaide can stop you, meeting John’s gaze where he’s sitting amongst his new acquaintances. Some of them you recognize as the gardeners, the mechanics, even some of the scholars amongst you. There’s a man he’s befriended you often see, physically imposing and taller in every sense and, in some way, you’re reminded of Jacob. You know the man and he’s the epitome of a gentle giant, this hulking figure who has somehow befriended your ex-lover with the wisdom of a brother.

John’s eyes widen a bit despite the collective chatter and laughter at his table in a joke someone’s sharing, blinking when your gaze is intentional. No contempt lays there--only curiosity, wonder as his lips part for a moment, taking in the length of your hair, your subtle smile, the fact that you’re actually spending these few seconds just to _look back at him_ for once.

And John, with those pure, almost tender eyes, can’t help but shoot one back.

Adelaide is _fuming_ when you turn to face forward again. “Now go over there and _fuck his brain’s out_.”

_Tempting. But hardly appropriate._

“He doesn’t deserve that yet.”

“ _Yet?_ ”

 _Yes, that’s what you said._ And you know very well that John wouldn’t even mind it at all--perhaps an explanation later, but not one that you’re ready to face so soon. There are other concerns on your laundry list, coupled with the myriad of other bunker worries and woes you continually have for the past years. Like _what if he goes back to the way he was?_ or _what if there’s somebody else better for him?_

In the end it doesn’t seem fair to believe any of this--maybe this long-standing denial is just an automatic response you can’t seem to shake. For the sake of you both, it seems doing so has at least worked as intended: with both of you focused on the lives of everyone else and not each other.

Adelaide seems almost alarmed by how abruptly you stand, pushing your tray over towards her.

She doesn’t budge but is entirely caught off guard, as if this hasn’t happened before. “Where are you going?”

“Still got plenty of jobs to do today.”

“Honey, you hardly touched your food!”

“Is that right?” you shoot back, glancing with vague disinterest towards your plate. “You can have it.”

“No thanks, I’ve had instant eggs for the past four weeks.”

“Give ‘em to Boomer then.”

“I’d rather give ‘em to Lover Boy across the aisle there to watch him _chow down_ \--”

Whatever she decides to do with them, you’re already out the double doors to the mess hall to continue your never-ending shift.

 

 

After endless mishaps, observations, maintenance, and daily lecturing, you’re _finally_ granted your rest by the end of the day. At least according to your watch and internal clock otherwise; without any actual sunup or sundown, everything runs on its own accord down here.

A soft tug at your hand has you turning with a smile at the four-year-old baby Rye.

“C’mere, sweetheart.”

Her delighted squeal as you hoist her against your hip is the purest thing to grace this cult. Everything about her is heart melting; those warm brown eyes of Nick and that thick, jet black hair from Kim. You’ve heard some weird shit through the grape vine about _who’s the top couple at Eden’s Gate_ and honestly? Your money’s been solid on the Ryes.

Kim’s final stance on the baby name had been set, but from what you’ve been told, Nick got dibs on the middle.

You bounce her against your hip with a grin. “How’ve you been, Nikita? Causing trouble?”

She nods with vigor, bangs sweeping against her forehead.

“Not to mama, I hope?” you drawl with a teasing lilt.

Kim can only snort out a laugh where she’s laying on her bed watching a DVD of some umpteenth season to a show you haven’t been able to rightly catch up on. Many of the families with younger children were provided with actual rooms--spacious, but not enough, you feel.

It’s the usual talk from there--Kim helping you to unwind and take your mind off of the menial chores of your day to day tasks, reminiscing on old things that had happened before. You’re seated on the edge of the queen-sized mattress with Nikki nearly falling asleep against your shoulder, but it hasn’t fully taken her yet as you’re both a little too invested in the show.

Those small fingers are drawing patterns against your skin until you notice she’s tracing the bishop there.

And as all children, she’s insatiably curious even with her drowsy tone of voice. “What’s that?”

Even Kim has to look over at your own tattooed hands that can only bear to mimic the most heavily artistic ones within this household. If she’s surprised by what she sees, she’s a pro at not showing it at all. There’s no judgement that rests there, no disappointment or ridicule.

She seems curious herself, had been there to let you cry into her shoulder these burdens and past years and utter _loneliness_ at times.

“A bishop,” you murmur against her hair, watching her chubby little forefinger trace imperfectly against the carefully rendered tattoo. “Like the ones from chess.”

“Why?” she continues on.

You chuckle a little. _A simple question with a not-so simple answer. Curious indeed._ “It means something to me. Something very important.”

Those big brown eyes glance up to you. “Like what?”

What could be so important to a four-year-old who has to grow up living in an underground bunker in order to survive a nuclear fallout? What else besides nose-picking and playing in the dirt and glue eating does an adolescent care about at this age? When you’d been four, you’d been too fixated on picking at old _scabs_ and drawing on the dry wall with fat generic brand crayons to conceptualize the prospect of love.

How do you explain to her that it represents the man you would die and kill for? That you _have?_

Your gaze is almost studious instead, running your fingers through her hair. “Like someone you care about.”

“Like mama?”

“Yeah. Like your mom.”

“So mama’s a bishop?”

Kim almost _dies_ on the spot as you make a quick save. “Ah, _no_ …”

“Then who?”

Why are you letting a _kid_ embarrass you all of a sudden?

“Like _John_ , baby. Like John,” Kim supplies helpfully, if not _tiredly_ , shooting you a raised brow and a knowing look. She motions for Nikki to come by her side and you help to guide her in doing so, watching as she snuggles underneath Kim’s embrace.

“Oh. Okay. I think Mister Seed cares about aunt Rook, too.”

You wish half the people around here were as unpretentious as Nikki--once it’s answered, it’s _simple_ and understood. Yet you’re a little off-put about the depth of how she’s come to recognize that; even Kim is shooting her a bit of a strange look, meeting your gaze as you both shrug.

It’s only when Nikki’s snoring and fast asleep does Kim bring it up again.

“Sooo?”

You don’t like that tone, back against the wall where you’re seated fully on the bed. “Yeah?”

“Addy told me you actually-- _gasp_ \--acknowledged John today?”

That big mouth does more than flap--you just wish it didn’t make it a chore to.

“I guess _making eye contact_ means I’m on complete speaking terms with him now.”

“You know he actually came up to me the other day to ask me how you’re doing?”

_Excuse me?_

She nods--not in displeasure, but in genuine sympathy and surprise. For you or for him, maybe the both of you, she’s still pleasant at heart and even more pure than the rest of you could ever hope to be.

“He even apologized to me some time ago about things he’s said. About me, about Nick… said if we ever needed anything, to just ask and he’ll do whatever he can.”

Your stomach is _flopping_ into turns you never imagined possible, voice almost small, pitched now as you cross your arms against your chest. “What did you tell him?”

Kim may have had her bad blood with the youngest Seed, but she in no way allowed grudges to sustain. By that look on her face you already have a feeling to the answer she gave--truthful, but not the entirety of it. She was still thinking about you, your own stance and complicated tangle.

“Said you were getting by,” she begins. “That you’ve been really busy looking after all of us first. That you haven’t really devoted any of your time to yourself to take a breather. That I think you’re really stressed out trying to make ends meet and ensure we feel safe and fed and just at _home_ here.”

It suddenly becomes difficult to swallow. 

“I know you don’t eat much anymore, Rook. You haven’t been finishing any meals or sitting in at the mess hall when you should be.”

Maybe that’s why you’re so _perpetually cold_ all the time now; there isn’t entirely enough padding anymore to retain the heat and, fine, it makes sense. Maybe it’s just that inkling within you, that subconscious whisper every time you see any of the kids coming around to just scoop less of a helping just so these kids can grow up without this shit show of a prophecy to ensue. To at least be able to enjoy what they have now before the next three years come forth.

You remember John, the child John, who hadn’t been fed enough, surviving off of what little children knew on food stamps and vitamin deficiencies.

Kim looks solemn. Saddened. Too righteous for your own good. “He’s worried about you, sweetheart. He really is.”

And after years of being able to school your emotions, to keep yourself rigid and steeled away from anything that would otherwise compromise your focus on the Project, you shudder with fresh tears.

Kim’s motherly touch is impossible to ignore when her arms wrap around your trembling shoulders. Everything is still an opened wound. Try as you might despite the dirty jokes, the incessant gossip, the longing stares, you still care about that troubled man all the same. Even in your decline, perhaps, you hope at least John is flourishing well in his own endeavors.

“You want me over tonight?” she offers, rubbing soothing circles against your back. “Nick can stay with Nikita, I can--”

You shake your head--no, no, you can’t do that to her when she has her own family to worry about.

Her voice is soothing warmth all the same. “Okay. Just knock if you need anything then, alright? You’re welcomed to stay as long as you want… and you’re family, Rook, please don’t forget that.”

Not bound by blood, by legacies of greater men, but by just a simplistically forged bond alone.

You nod all the same, breath shaky.

 

 

The days only grow wearier and even more harrowing from then on, and you feel something is out to get you.

What you’d initially been informed was a domestic dispute to be broken up in the mess hall had turned into something much, _much_ worse.

So much worse, in fact, that in your worn-out haze, you realize too late that the origin of this entire quarrel has something to do with _you._

Maybe you’re not the only one losing steam down here, but you’ve enough common sense and perseverance to push onwards. Others, though, are here to show that this possibility isn’t feasible for everyone. That sooner or later someone was going to snap--to question what the Project was attempting to achieve, to be unable to reconcile the now irradiated past. 

Cabin fever. You expected it, discussed it, planned on how to resolve it--but have never experienced it face-to-face until now.

Only the Chosen are allowed to carry weaponry at all times, along with you, John, and the select few law enforcement within the bunker. It’s not like others haven’t tried to placate the now rampant peggy before you, his own supporters at his back, ranting and raving questions around like _why can’t we leave?!_ or _you can’t expect us to stay here forever!_

Sometimes you can only hope and save people up to a point where it won’t ever be enough anymore. Whitehorse is already on the scene--he’d been the one to radio you after all, but even for all that de-escalation and use of force continuum, no amount of talk is enough to get its de facto leader to see rationale.

Your presence, you feel within the turmoil crowd, only seems to further worsen this.

You try everything you can, every point of police training that Whitehorse had reminded you. You try to get him to speak his mind, to put that serrated blade he has in hand and poised away and far from reach. You want him to make you understand what he wants but it’s precisely what officers in your line of work hope it shouldn’t come down to.

_He’s armed. Staying armed. Has supporters who are, too. Won’t listen to reason. Don’t want to put him down. Gun is the last resort. There are still more people on our side than his. We outnumber him._

“This is _your_ fault!” 

He needs someone to pin this on--you let him, anything to use as a punching bag instead of resorting to physical retaliation. You’ve been that stress ball before; you can still be it again. 

“We listened to you, Rook! We _believed_ in you! You can’t--you can’t expect us to stay the rest of our lives here, cooped up, waiting to see what’s even left of the world out there!”

Unreasonable. Irrational. Clutching at straws to build his house of cards out of nothing. Did he miss that seminar on what leaving the bunker too soon will do? Does he understand what radiation poisoning can do to the body? What opening that door will do to every other inhabitant who still wanted to stay and jeopardize everyone’s survival?

Yet you persist, voice calm yet firm, coaxing him, “Put the knife down. Put it down, sir, we don’t need any of this. I don’t have my weapon drawn, none of us do. You’re scaring folks half to death in this room.”

He doesn’t believe you--he makes it known, and Whitehorse is there to help. “Listen to her, son, you won’t get any negotiations like this… We can help you, but you need to cooperate with us first.”

You don’t notice John at the corner of your eye, the fact that he had been in the room at all, his own engagement in the talking down of this soon-to-be volatile situation. John’s agreement is all you need though--his own validation, his own worries steeped within your own now that you’re at the forefront of this battle. 

You’ll tank the blame. Just as you had for the fall of the resistance, Hudson’s decline, the deaths of so many others who couldn’t be saved in time.

If you’d looked hard enough at the time, maybe you would’ve seen that John was, too.

And for a brief moment that clarity and hesitance crosses the instigator’s face. His eyes move akin to a cornered prey--across John’s, Whitehorse’s, anyone who seems prepared to disarm him without his consent. But most importantly, they always fall back onto you.

“Give me the knife. You can do this,” you gently tempt him, taking a cautious step forward.

He lowers it slightly, still appearing hesitant.

“That’s right. You’re doing great. I’m gonna take another step towards you, is that alright?”

You swear you can almost see that alarm on John’s face that you would even go so far, but you need to take a chance. No one needs to pull out a gun for a knife fight. No one else needs to get caught in that crossfire. There are kids in this bunker, for fuck’s sake.

He nods ever so slightly.

To be fair, you should’ve seen this all backfiring. You have contingencies for those, don’t you? No amount of training could get you to pull out your firearm fast enough when that knife is handled with such precision expertise to slash at your throat. For all your reflexes and academy days, you’re able to dodge one swipe and dislodge that clattering knife with disarming speed, blood dripping off its blade.

John’s warning voice at your side isn’t faster than the other man behind him lunging his own knife straight for your gut.

Why do they _always_ aim for the gut?

And why didn’t you expect someone else to have a fucking knife?

The speed and force of the plunge alone knocks the absolute wind out of you. Or maybe that’s because your back had literally slammed against the tread plate of the floor?

_No gunshots, please no gunshots, don’t go for the gun…_

Whatever’s happening now you can’t will yourself to see, fresh pain blossoming against your belly. But you don’t seem to mind--not when your vision is suddenly filled with John Seed’s face crushing flat against the diamond pattern of the industrial steel, blood between his teeth and a bruise sure to mar that pretty cheek of his.

_He’s hurt, he’s hurt, God, no, **no** \--_

You feel your promise to Jacob already falling to shambles. Watch as John’s jaw clenches in pain, blood on his split lip, yet when he turns his gaze over to you he is so… angelic. Untainted. Fallen.

You don’t realize your hand is grasping against the floor, stretching out but you can’t seem to reach him.

If only you could see yourself through his own eyes. That jagged flesh where blade had torn from nose bridge to cheek bone. The blood just pouring down your dreaded visage, the redness seeping into the belly of your sweater.

“You good?” you whisper to him, oblivious to the ensuing chaos, of Whitehorse and several others dropping knees into the backs of resisting attackers.

He is--he doesn’t say so, but he is when your eyes sweep over him and the only superficial damage is a sucker punch to the face. His hair falls and curves into his eyes, dragging himself closer to your body, his hands suddenly reaching to apply pressure against your middle.

Your nails dig into his wrist, but John persists on.

“It’s not so bad,” you wheeze, voice tight and airy. “ _Honest_ , I’ve almost died before.”

“Shut _up_ ,” you hear him say, almost _laugh_ because _there’s that worried asshole you know and love_. “Shut up and stay with me, I’m not having this happen to you _again._ ”

And yet you see it all in his eyes: _this is my fault, this is all my fault…_

No more crusades, no more retribution. He doesn’t have time for that, not anymore. He’ll think of something better--a creative solution to punish those who meant harm. Not now though. Right now he’s lifting his thick-knitted sweater free from his torso, wearing a t-shirt beneath it, using it to apply more pressure to your wound.

He reaches for your hand, his fingers entwined with yours for just a brief moment, and you feel that distinct wetness there. How he guides it against his sweater, how you start to feel _guilty_ for ruining it because it looked so good on him. 

When he hoists you to stand upright you feel like your guts are about to pool out entirely, leaning your weight against his side as he’s forced to half-drag you to the elevators and out of the storm.

You won’t fall asleep on him this time, something that he’s grateful for. In your slowed miasma of lucidity, you take into account of the positives. Like how soft and warm and _cushioned_ John feels now, his belly even more prominent in that t-shirt. How he taps his foot with rapid impatience as you both wait for the elevator to come down to your floor.

How he’s trying to be as gentle and firm as possible when it does, stepping into the center and kicking the button to the floor to the infirmary. The view is even better with your good cheek pressed to his chest to confirm those early grays settling into his sideburns, your knees suddenly weak.

John’s gaze turns to yours during the ride up, blue and bright and caught off guard by your soft expression.

He’d chalk it up to the low blood cell count, but…

Your voice is so weary, quiet as you plead for him, to feel him, for _anything_ from him to comfort you.

It’s like he knows exactly what you need. His forehead coming to rest gently against the side of yours, rough beard scrubbing the skin of your cheek. Your hand still resting at your gut to staunch the bleeding you seem more or less affected by. Getting turned into a punching bag is just part of the prophetic job, yet it’s somehow the only way to get you and John to comfort each other again.

Neither of you are truly angry. You both anticipated this could’ve happened, discussed together in that ranch-style kitchen over dinner and long into the night after. Maybe neither of you are angry because there’s nothing emotionally _left_ to afford that draining effort anymore.

Even when you reach the infirmary, that doctor that had once tended your earlier mishaps and miraculous recovery standing from his desk in distraught, both of you are only invested in each other’s recovery. 

Other staff are already guiding and stripping your clothes off to properly diagnose and warrant those stitches, to ensure your vitals are looking good and a blade hadn’t dislodged anything important apart. Doing so had forced you and John to separate, and even hazy on the ER table he’s still hovering about while another nurse tends to his face.

John doesn’t seem to pay much mind, still fixated on you, your dozing expression even when they have to put you under. This isn’t the first time he’s seen you under the knife, being tended to by better personnel that isn’t him. The only thing that really seems to chip his exterior is when the buoyant doctor informs him that you’ll be making a full recovery, a _doable_ recovery compared to when you’d been turned into swiss cheese. Years ago, he would be a tirade of flying, energetic emotion for what had been done to you; he still is.

But that anger will be put to productive use, not aimlessly wasted as he had often done. He’s learned to be patient now--he’s waited for you this long, would wait even longer if you desired. Right now, he has all the time in the world.

You don’t know how long he chooses to stay even after they move you to a clean bed with fresh sheets and a hospital gown, your clothes bagged and tossed to be repurposed for an old cleanup rag. Even when you wake up here and again his positions change--sometimes he’s near you, dozing off asleep at your bedside, or he’s sleeping in the cot next to yours. Sometimes he’s gone entirely until you hear the doctor say _Mister Seed will be back soon, went to get coffee_ and you know it’s the truth.

You’re out of the loop for the remainder of your recovery, but John is still able to continue on working. Generally, Kim, Nick, Sharky or even Adelaide will come to your aid with easy-on-the-intestines food, a diet supplemented by the doctors, but even this grows weary on you for days to come.

You don’t have patience for anyone else right now, especially when word comes that Henry had been knocking at your door continuously.

Every unplanned visit is met with your annoyance--and whatever glass or bowl is at your bedside has been aimed at the doorframe.

That is until John comes through with your lunch tray in hand, nearly taken out by a chucked alarm clock to the face.

As if he needs anymore things being thrown at him--you see the bandage against his cheek, his healing lip, the bruises even from here. _How the hell does he make even **that** look so good?_

By your initial welcome alone he seems almost hesitant to enter, testing the waters to ensure he’s actually wanted here. “Were you… expecting someone else?”

You urge him in after your initial shock. “No! No, come in.”

It’s oddly silent throughout the entire ordeal when John sets the tray at your bedside, his body lingering a little too long, as if he isn’t sure if he’s here to deliver your lunch and go. His silent question is answered when you pat the side of the bed, welcoming his company--you can only handle so much of Sharky or Adelaide to supply you with the happenings of the bunker alone--when John’s weight sinks into the mattress’s side.

“Eat,” he coaxes you, and by the tone you’re confident he would spoon feed you if need be.

You do, even if you feel like you can’t rightly stomach or argue it. He’ll stay until that bland vegetable soup is completely down your gullet and you’d rather not wait it out to see.

In the meantime, he offers what he knows--how things have begun to settle down after that initial fiasco, the course of plan for your personal dramatic _assassin_ , so to speak.

“I’ve delegated that over to the Sheriff,” John notes, not so subtly scooting the slice of cake closer to you. “I think he would have a more… acceptable treatment.”

 _I don’t think cake was part of the dietary plan._ You’ve a suspicious inkling somewhere that John more than likely prodded and breathed down the necks of the cooks to whip up something at least a little more indulgent than usual.

You don’t touch that vanilla cake just yet, palms cupping your cheeks where you’re leaned against the overbed table. Frankly you don’t rightly _care_ what’s done at this point--you just want some sense of normalcy back, to balance that precarious equilibrium that’s been so carelessly tossed aside.

You don’t notice John’s careful eyes at first, taking in the bandage spanning from the crest of your cheek to your nose bridge. How they fixate on the tattoo facing him in its gentle cursive print. How your unbuttoned white Henley mirrors that _sloth_ against his own chest in placement, the other discernable sins on your other hand. The bishop that you hold so dear.

All inscriptions that belong to him, honor him, intertwine with him.

John looks as if he’s about to say something, you look prepared to listen--yet neither of you rightly anticipate the intrusive opening of the door.

Still looking his Sunday best, dressed like he spends a majority part of his bunker days scrubbing his clothes free from the shared laundry. The person the alarm clock was most likely supposed to brain but didn’t--yet you can’t stop John in time when he goes to stand, all formal and courteous and _lawyer-like_ when he sticks his hand out for Henry to shake.

Both men are civil, yet you can’t help but roll your fucking eyes at how _palpable_ this air suddenly becomes as they study each other more closely.

“Mister Seed, I didn’t expect to see you here,” Henry begins, their hands shaking much longer and more vigorously than necessary. “Rook, my dear. How are you? I’ve been trying to visit--”

“Call me John. And she’s fine,” John interrupts, bold, audacious smile and all. He’s the older gentleman after all, calm and cool in the face of--what you presume to him is--danger. “Isn’t that right, Rook?”

 _What a forced smile._ “I don’t mean to sound brash, John, but I’m afraid I asked her.”

 _You’re going to gag if you’re to become this pointless tug-of-war between two children._ An eyeroll later, though, you appease him. “I’ve been dandy, thanks.”

“Did you need anything else? Pillows, blankets? I could bring you your dinner later, if you want. I wish I was there sooner, but I was busy at--”

Do you know how much effort it takes to tune someone out? Not much, not when he starts directing the conversation about his own excuses and chores in order to fix his schedule for you. Henry has made it a part-time job for you to start ignoring that broken record.

John hasn’t returned to his post, acting like this physical wall that Henry can’t seem to cross as you boringly watch from your bed.

“I can… return later, if you want, Rook?” he continues on when neither of you are really _saying_ anything back to his rambling. And _jeez, Addy was right on this one. Were you really expecting yourself to stay one-and-done with the Brady Bunch of all peggies?_

“I’d rather not at all.”

It’s delivered so _dryly_ and casual that even John has to double-take your way just to make sure.

Maybe you miss being that old-married couple instead, watching those iron and starched slacks fidget and excuse himself from the room with the most rapidly blooming face you’ve ever witnessed. Maybe you like the way John exudes this choking _smugness_ when the door closes, as if you weren’t there to witness him at all.

And somehow he has the audacity to direct his voice at you, haughtiness in his voice still. “That wasn’t very nice of you. If anything, that was morbidly… _wrathful_ of you, Rook.”

“Says the man who was literally _crushing his hand_. Alright, Ronald Reagan, you can assert your dominance in the next choir meeting and not turn my room into a bible study fight ring.”

“I’m… surprised.”

You shoot him a look as he plants his hands on his hips in curious thought, and… _alright, he didn’t have to do that, he didn’t have to do any of that, he looks so **good** in that new sweater when he does that, the hem of it riding up just a little against his belly._

“About what?” you can’t help but ask.

He shrugs. “Didn’t know you liked blondes.”

 _Oh, **whatever** , Mr. Petty._ “Uh-huh. Didn’t know you did either. Though I can’t blame you--Mary May’s pretty cute.”

Thank the lord, _that_ shuts him the fuck up.

John clears his throat at that. “That’s… fair.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“I should get back, let you get your rest,” he mentions, pointedly eyeing the cake you’ve yet to touch. _Yeah. He definitely had that made specifically for you._ “Did you want me to stop by at the end of the night?”

And John Seed is the epitome of _melting_ when you shoot him a cheeky look.

“Sure. Only if you bring more of this cake on your way back.”

He shifts for a moment, fidgeting on the spot like he wants to do something but is restraining himself from doing so. It’s a promise easy for him to make good on, nodding as he’s suddenly unsure of himself on how to depart within appropriate bounds.

You watch him twiddle around the entire time, a brow raised in humorous delight that he’s _squirming_ under pressure.

“I’ll… see you later then,” he supplies somewhat inelegantly, and for all that charisma and lawyer-training, he sure as _shit_ doesn’t know how to say goodbye right.

Do you have to do _everything_ around here?

“John?”

You reach for that watch-clad wrist just in time as he moves to turn away for the door, catching his attention back your way. And you’ve caught him in the middle of his crime--the way he leans down so quickly just as you do for him, and it’s like this static shock all over again.

Four years without each other’s touch, and that long-waiting ember is suddenly sparking alight.

He is the one who presses himself closer, his breaths sharp, beard rough against your skin as his lips eagerly meld to yours. Like he’s been starved for so long, consumed by this passion that is quick to spiral out of control. Why does the man need to put both his palms against your jawline, your cheeks as you whimper against his open-mouthed kisses as he tilts your head back, breathing you, devouring you?

When he finally can pull away, can gather his bearings, your fingers are clutching into the sleeves of his sweater, watching that errant lock of hair fall against his eye.

And finally, _finally_ you can tuck it back behind his ear, cradling his jaw with the utmost reverence you’ve summoned in _years._

To your surprise, you’re met not with his usual smugness or conceit. Not even overblown lust or this irreplaceable desire for your skin against his, but with John’s teary blue eyes.

It’s the first time you see them fall, slipping against the skin of his cheeks as he takes a shaky inhale. Eyes half-lidded, welling up with more moisture that he can’t seem to control. This is four years without you racing back to him, his face drawn and seeking comfort against your palm as your thumb sweeps below his eye to catch the droplets streaking there.

“I missed you,” he confesses, eyes downcast but it’s the truth--it’s always been the truth. Even when the pad of your thumb draws softly against that white bandage against his cheek, gently beneath that slight discoloration of a purple bruise.

“Me too, John.”

Your response is delicate, not intended to harm, yet the startled noise he makes sounds as if he’s been punched in the gut. Like he’s winded, still clutching onto you as if he’ll be swept away by that never-ending storm that continually surrounds your lives.

He’s found his anchor again, just as you’ve found yours, wiping away his tears even as his shoulders quake, his touch trembling.

John remains in your hold just a while longer. You both can afford to be selfish just this once, with each other, your finger tracing against the little rook drawn into his flesh of his arm. The only reminder he had of you all this time against his body, his atoned soul.

The rook that meets your bishop.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s almost somber, bittersweet as you watch Dr. Strangelove abandon his wheelchair, has suddenly regained the power to walk in order to resume his nuclear operation. Memories of that bright flash, that hammer-hitting-anvil-like sound. The first weaponized use of nuclear weapons in a war you were never alive during.
> 
> You squeeze John’s hand a little tighter, his face turning to you, concerned in the washed-out light as he whispers, “Everything alright?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> after all these months and _finally_ , this is wrapped up. frankly, it's been a long time since i've finished _any_ story for that matter, so this is def an accomplishment for me! i hope you guys enjoyed the rocky ride as much as i did even after months since the game's release. [heart eyes emoji]
> 
> won't take anymore of your time; thank you for the wonderful comments, kudos, gracious feedback that helped let me see the end of this. ;A; if you'd like to see anything or anyone else from fc5, lemme know! i'll be putting up a jacob fic soon, too.
> 
>  **explicit smut is at the third break; a very brief and minor mention of one at the fifth.**  
>  the smut is dirty. it's filthy. it's pretty expecting of john seed, tbh.

John came back that night, as promised.

In fact, he comes quite often.

His appearance late in the night is nothing extraordinary or uncommon now--sometimes his shifts end before yours, sometimes yours before his. Either way, one of you occupies the rather cramped and cornered space of what you deemed your living arrangements for the past few years.

It’s modest, if you consider modest the minimal décor and neatly folded laundry laying around. No pictures of family, no evidence of hobbies or interests that would otherwise clue any bystander coming in for a brief visit.

John’s visits are anything but brief, though; he’s staked out your couch as his new mattress most nights despite your insistence that you should come to his. The space is hampered off by furniture fit for one, the area itself designed for two if the other was the size of a child. John’s room _had_ originally been detailed to accommodate both of you, and it _is_ a far cry more spacious than yours.

You would think John would complain about any of this, but he hasn’t muttered a peep of it. Is this what enjoying another’s presence is? Not for the materialistic comforts, but the company of each other?

Even if that meant his back might be sore the next morning, apparently, but it’s those nights he looks forward to most. It means he can be there for those times when the days are long and your ability to stay awake even less so, allowing him to notice things that he’s taken for granted before.

Like how you prefer to sleep on your side, or that your morning routine has been the same as he remembers. You groggily shuffling up before him, quietly into the bathroom as the rhythmic scrubbing of your toothbrush against teeth lulls him awake. Though everyone here has a bunker neighbor, and the routine living and sounds of others completely natural, John can’t help but fall back asleep knowing you’re there to watch over him.

Those nights, though, are what you both have come looking forward to.

Not because either of you are expecting sex--aside from the gentle touches, the teasing pinch and quick slap of the hand to keep his paws to himself--he asks nothing of you, and you from him.

You love these nights because his voice murmurs against the mechanical humming of the heating unit, the water pipes rushing above, the sound of your neighbor’s questionable water running from his shower at midnight accompanied by a rhythmic thumping that would rival a high school band drummer. The way John speaks as you reminisce over what one should during a nuclear apocalypse.

_Where are you from? Where did you grow up? Who are your parents? What university did you attend? What’s your favorite city? Your favorite season?_

All normative questions with answers that don’t exist anymore. But they have you talking, laughing, dreaming again about memories that were buried beneath a mountain of stress and work and a job that has no foreseen retirement benefits. John, laying on his back with his hands folded against his stomach, chuckling over a childhood story you share where you’re lying on your side facing him.

Some nights are easier than most--a story is enough to get you clocking in, but even John’s company isn’t nearly adequate to mitigate how difficult it’s been for you to get rest.

People in this bunker have emergencies. You tend to them, even if it has to wake you up at five in the morning to do so. John isn’t blind; he sees it for what it is, you being overworked and strained even as you’re medicated and told by the miracle doctor to _take it easy_ lest you earn yourself an ulcer or something.

Well, it surely wouldn’t be undeserving, would it?

Though with John around now, you’re certain he wouldn’t allow it to happen. And speaking of your new occasional roommate, he’s soundly knocked out and wrapped up in a knitted blanket, a few frazzled hairs curling into an eye. It’s not enough to deter him from his rest, though, as you stand facing your bed, fixing on your clothes before you have to leave and shooting him a little smile before rustling with the button of your jeans.

You don’t notice John stirring awake just as you snap your bra on, his bleary, morning gaze fixated on the expanse of your naked back as you wriggle your arms through a shirt. Another blink and he’s studying your shoulder blades, the faded scars of exit wounds through the skin. Like this scatter plot of no relation, skewed by shallow imperfections from your multitude of vehicular accidents on the surface of Hope County.

It’s all canvassed by the back of your shirt, John blinking again when you turn around and notice him finally awake.

“Sleep well?” comes your almost jaded, teasing tone. “Might have to pitch a tent at your room tonight. I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep with that thumping going on in the next room for another day.”

John mumbles something nearly incoherent, enough that it has to get you seated on the couch with him, bemused and beatific as he usually finds you now. You do nothing to hide the circles under your eyes, make no effort to really _look out_ after yourself, and John can see it. But you are still ever pleasant, radiant, warm, your fingers brushing his hair back from his eyes as they seem to flutter at your touch.

“They’re not married,” he murmurs again through a yawn, and you realize he’s addressing your next-door neighbor and his not-so subtle tryst.

“Neither are we, and that didn’t stop us.”

That gets him attentive for some reason, but you only scoff out a soft breath, chucking him under the chin. “You can take my bed if you want till you’re ready. I’m gonna head out and check on the garden, see how the flowers are coming along.”

He almost looks as if he’s attempting to wrangle the blankets off his person, trying to catch up in time to make it with you, but you only press gentle palms against his shoulders to guide him back.

“When you’re ready,” you remind him, as if he hasn’t been getting enough sleep these past few weeks either. “Alright?”

He agrees after another beat, watching you leave. After some time, John finally does crawl underneath your covers, relishing in the warmth you’ve left there after the night.

 

 

The arum lilies are in full bloom and pollinating if your third sneeze is anything to go by. Soft, velvety petals beneath your fingertips as you water carefully at the roots and soil. The sweetness of the room is almost reminiscent of a rainy day outside, water running through the pipes and automated at times to let the plants rehydrate.

No one else in the bunker comes here at times, not even the gardeners. You’d ran into John’s buff buddy earlier down the hall ( _”Heading to the rec center to kiss my kittens!_ ”) and had merrily wandered off with a farewell _dude!_ while he was at it. You like him, Andy. The world has gone to nuclear apocalypse and he’s still enjoying his slice of life laid out for him, and on top of that a _morning person_ that you can’t accurately equate to.

Truly the missing friend that John needed in hard times.

The metal door creaks behind you, footsteps shuffling as John asserts his still-sleepy, “G’mornin’.”

You don’t move from your perched spot even when you respond back, flicking some dirt off a stem of your lilies. The smell of that almost bitter warmth of grounded coffee comes through your senses, eyes turning just in time to see a tattooed hand offering you a steaming mug.

There’s no way this is the run of the mill crystal instant shit that’s served in the mess hall. You faintly remember Jacob mentioning that _espresso_ machine John had invested in and wonder how often he’s even used it since. Obviously found a good reason to now--you take that first gratified sip as you rise to stand, meeting his blue eyes over the rim of your mug.

“Saw Andy this morning,” you begin, letting that warmth flood you as you notice John studying you with the intensity you seem to forget he has. “He was asking if you were gonna join him anytime soon at the gym to, uh… _pet his kittens?_ ”

John’s eyebrows shoot up. “It’s his workout regime, I don’t know why he calls it that either. Frankly, I’m a little afraid at this point to question it.”

Considering that a handshake with Andy would probably break your arm in half, you don’t doubt it. But you also doubt that Andy had a single bad bone in his body--that man is a cheeriness that even Henry couldn’t compete with, the good, eccentric uncle kind of feel.

Something else, though, seems to bug your boy, his hand on a hip as he glances down at his body. “…Do I, though?”

You respond perhaps a _little_ more eagerly and loudly than you intended to. “No! Please, don’t, you look… you look _really_ good, John.”

A wholesome, almost cheeky smile sprouts up across his face like a flower in bloom. And it’s then do you realize the motherfucker had the audacity to corner you like that, wheedling out your honest opinion and the fact that you’ve taken complete notice of his person.

“Shut up,” you halfheartedly bite out, inhaling a gulp of coffee as you turn back to view the patch of lilies. Water droplets glitter from the ivory petals, slipping off the curved edges like they’re fresh from the shower. “Got a lot of questions about plans for recreation on Friday night. Anything you got in mind?”

“Mm, movie, maybe? We kept an old reel around somewhere…”

You can feel his shoulder brushing against yours, the subtle scent of detergent from his sweater. Without much thought, you reach over and gently pry away a loose hair that’s stuck to the fabric against his chest.

“Ah, it’s the cat,” John responds as you flick it away, suddenly taking in your ceased movements.

“You have a _cat?_ ” comes your almost obnoxiously girlish response, and John’s eyes seem to comically widen by how _possessed_ you seem now at the mere mention of his pet.

“Yes?” It’s meant to be an affirmation, a strangely _hilarious_ one considering, but it sounds more like a question than a statement when he watches your hopeful expression spur further.

“Can I see it? What’s its name?”

When the _fuck_ did John Seed get a cat? _Where_ was he able to get one? Why were you suddenly out of the fucking loop and why did no one bother to mention this essential information to you? If you’d known earlier maybe you would’ve made amends much sooner as John seems to take his time pulling out his--surprisingly working still--smart phone and showing you a photo of his black and white kitty.

Even if it’s eight in the morning, nothing can stop the cooing and fawning sounds you gush out as John slides through multiple candid shots of his pet. There’s one where she’s standing on his shoulders, curled around his neck like some exotic fur hood. Your own boy Boomer roams the halls as he pleases, has found equally stranger spots to nap in, but John’s cat is news to _you_.

His thumb swipes to a blurry picture of his cat ( _“You named her Marlene? As in Dietrich?”_ ) where she’s got a slender tail and rear aimed for John’s mug. The man looks none-too-pleased, probably having taken the photo just mere moments before she’d been posing so well for him.

Alright, you _have_ to snort out a laugh on that one.

“You can meet her tonight, if you want,” John offers, seemingly pleased with himself. “If Hedy doesn’t make a fuss, hopefully.”

You don’t recall anyone in the roster named that. “Hedy?”

“My crow.”

Cue _gushing over John’s pets part fucking two_.

 

 

Did John have to actually describe everything about his pets during the lunch hour rush?

Of course he did. No detail was left untouched--the age of his cat, his crow, utter babies still to you but a headache at times for John. You seem more interested in his stories than your helping of ham, John actually lifting a cut slice and prodding it at your face to _eat, you need to remember to eat, my dear_ coming from his lips.

You can literally see Addy over John’s shoulder, your gaggle of friends seated and _completely_ whispering amongst each other as they eye over at your two-seat table with John.

Sharky is sending you a coded message with his hands--a forefinger eagerly being shoved into the ring he’s made out of his thumb and pointer.

John is literally about to turn around to see what has your attention when you hastily touch his cheek to keep his focus on you, a series of collective snorts from Nick and Hurk coming forth at the table.

But you can’t hide it from him either way. “Your friends enjoying themselves, Rook?”

“Oh, yeah. Maybe a little _too_ much,” you tiredly inform, shooting a glare at Addy who’s pantomiming a very aggressive and enthusiastic hand pump from beneath the table at you.

John seems elated at this, giving you this breathless laugh. “I’m not surprised. Andy and his friends seem to share that sentiment, I think.”

Now it’s your turn to peek over your shoulder, John steering you back to face him as he suggests, “I wouldn’t, really.”

“Why not?” you poke at him, tapping a toe against his shin beneath the table. “Not like you haven’t done anything to me that they’re probably suggesting before.”

This seems to make John’s blue eyes flash just a shade darker, clearing his throat as he sips at his water. _Yeah. Try to play the better man, Johnny._ “I can’t say I disagree with you, Rook. You’re right, as usual.”

Chin in palm, you seem utterly sublime to him. “Mm? So, would I be right to say that you still watch that video of when you fingered me in the backseat of your Bimmer?”

You literally can _see_ his Adam’s apple bob to swallow, caught in a lie that he can’t find the willpower to possibly redirect or deny. _Try to play the good boy. You know him better than that. And it’s good to know he isn’t the only one who’s had to do something about those stressed out days, those stressed out nights thinking of what had been_.

Is it cruel that you enjoy watching him fidget, the way his eyes are focused only on you?

You feel those tattooed fingers stroking against your knee beneath the table, his thumb drawing soft circles into the meat of your inner thigh.

“Yes,” he confesses simply, lowly against the white noise. “More often than I want to admit.”

 _Because it’s not the only one he’s been watching_ , you conclude, fingers reaching to clutch against his own that traces aimless patterns against your jeans.

“I wish I could,” you tell him, _smile_ for him despite the filth of your words. “You’re selfish, you know that? I had to imagine it all. Remember it all. You had it at your fingertips anytime you wanted it.”

Your feint disapproval is enough to make goosebumps rise against the flesh of his arms, beneath his sweater despite the warmth he’s radiating in droves now. You’re testing him--of course you are. You want to see how much resolve your man has achieved, how good he can be at holding himself back. Maybe he’s tempted to put you over his knee right now--he’s done it before, his palm sharply meeting your bare ass as you’d cried out in surprise from that unexpected, almost soothing pain.

And yeah, Adelaide--he really _does_ give out the best spankings.

“Don’t remind me,” comes his almost faux warning tone, voice practically hoarse.

His other hand is enclosed over yours on the tabletop, star-studded and warm. It’s the hand with _EDEN_ transposed onto his main digits; you distinctly remember the final E and N having a very prominent role in that so-called video you both seem to reminisce over.

“Why not?” you fire back, turning his palm over so your fingers can walk across it. “I can already see you after a long day, John.”

Finally, like you’ve been baiting him all this time, you wrench away from him, feeling that cool air hitting your cheeks as you down your juice. John looks like he’s had an ordeal himself, blinking and inhaling in a heavier breath as you reach to pat his shoulder and kiss his cheek, smiling like nothing’s out of the ordinary.

“Remember that we have a meeting tonight at seven sharp. I’ll stop by your room and we can walk together?”

 _He seriously looks like he’s about to run back to it right now just to rub a frustrated one out._ Yet John nods nonetheless, trying to calm himself.

 

 

Marlene and Hedy have no _business_ being so cute.

John’s kitty had taken a liking to you the moment you’d sat down on his bed (a queen made for two, you realized), rubbing and snuggling against your calves like you’re her new favorite scratching post. You _hope_ it wouldn’t come down to that, but she’s utterly adorable, tail swaying back and forth in some languid manner.

As if you weren’t already giddy enough about meeting his pets--the crow is surprisingly tame considering how loud she can caw at times, flitting around in her cage that John astonishingly leaves open for her to roam. Like Marlene, Hedy is trained like some _house cat_ ; well-mannered, grooms after herself, and tidies up the place in neat order.

And yeah--John’s room _is_ bigger, at least twice the area compared to yours. So much space must have been awfully lonely to deal with, though his companions seemed to mitigate this, if even for a moment.

His place definitely seems more lived in and decorated--there are model planes on any available surface, spitfires from World War II among the most popular of his collection. Some even have tiny pilots in the cockpits, and it takes a ridiculous amount of willpower to not imagine John imitating a dogfight with them in his spare time.

You watch the two unlikely best friends bounce and flap at each other, Marlene slapping a paw down where Hedy had been not a moment ago and now unfairly perches, poised, at an upper ledge.

They’re already bounding away, finding more play space in John’s bathroom, to which he sighs out in aggravation. A cool glass presses against your arm--you realize he’s poured you both a drink, bourbon by the looks of it, and clutch at it in a heartbeat.

His own tumbler clinks with yours as you toast, sipping at it with less grace than you’ve carried in years. But it doesn’t matter to either of you apparently--no rules apply to John’s bunker, a huge relief to several of its inhabitants, remarkably.

The burn it leaves is utterly pleasant, welcoming as it reaches your belly, John still studying your profile as he tends to his own glass where you both lean against his improvised shelf of liquor.

And you can’t help but smile as you take another sip. “Now what are you thinking about?”

The answer is obvious to him if he can answer it so quickly. “You’re more relaxed now. More at ease.”

 _But still tired, exhausted, not sleeping enough._ The drink helps--you haven’t had one in a hot minute, _years_ , deciding to stay sober than touch drink. Not like you were prone or at risk--you just didn’t trust yourself enough to stray that far and pace each time something stressful happens.

You hum at that, emptying the rest of the glass down. “Put a couple more in me and I’ll be knocked out cold, how about that.”

“We have a meeting to get to,” he says, though for some reason it sounds like a reminder for himself than it is for you. You’re not the forgetful one here, he has to remind himself. Yet he is standing so close you can smell his filled glass from here, wondering if you should push it or stay sober.

Turning to meet his gaze feels like a mistake; a mistake you _want_ to make, want to witness because you’ve earned it. You’ve been a good girl. You’ve done your part, played the game as instructed. John looks breathless, leaning against you where the bourbon sits between you two.

You don’t know who leans in first. You’ll blame it on John just this once--it seems easier that way, with what his lips feverishly kissing against yours like it’s you and not the drink that’s more addictive. He tastes just like you, this heady burn layered in a sweetness you can only find in its amber comfort.

You don’t feel your glass being slipped away and set back on the shelf, his own left abandoned there, his tongue seeking yours in the bourbon glow. How his arms cage around you before trying to find its place, first at your hips before reaching where he’s always been most passionate--your jaw, tilting and having the utmost control there where he leans down for you.

Half-lidded eyes and all, your breathless sigh when his kisses trail against your throat. John’s nose nudging softly there, teeth gently worrying a bruise against the flesh and earning him a yank at that longer hair sitting at the nape of his neck.

“Bad boy,” you admonish him, voice husky, delighted grin on your face.

It doesn’t take long for him to drag you over to the bed, his jeans and boots kicked away as you both fall into the firmness of his mattress. Hands touching you, mapping you, reexploring what had been lost. Even watching John’s tattooed hands unbuttoning your jeans is a pleasure. There’s something about gazing at those blue eyes of his turn utterly black, eclipsed by an old moon in this heat. How quickly he leans down after tossing your boots and pants aside, pressing those ticklish and beard-burning kisses against your thighs.

You already know what he wants the moment he tries to take the lead, hands reaching for the hem of your shirt but you’re even faster.

“No,” you order him, and he stops almost immediately at this, worry on his face suddenly washing ashore. _The fact that he cares enough about what you want shouldn’t be as hot as it is._ “Let me lead.”

_I wanna be on top._

John says no more, and you find the positions _much_ more favorable. With you above, seated against his belly, feeling the suppleness of it there beneath you. He looks so compliant, so _ready_ to do whatever you please that your kiss is met with such eagerness, he’s nearly straining himself to lean up. To feel every inch of you again, his hands always needing to _touch_. Running down from your shoulders to your wrists. Sitting up as you straddle him, feeling the cushion of your bra pressed to his sweater.

He needs more contact, he needs more _you_ against him, eyes hazy in the lamplight.

The last thing he expects is your sudden roughness--your palms against his wrists, pressing those hands above him and using your body to lean him down completely.

Panting for breath, looking almost confused--he’s _perfect_.

“No touching,” you warn him, hands squeezing against those tattoos lined there. He can already feel bruises. He wants more. “I’ll leave if you do, John.”

This order seems simple enough, your threat only heartfelt and only superficial. You want control, you want to be the one to take your pleasure where you can, and he’s more than one enough to give you that satisfaction. It’s nothing entirely new in your relationship, but it’s certainly a treat on his end when you’re feeling particularly bossy and stressed.

He moves his hands, resting them at his sides in submission, to make it plain to you he’ll obey your rules. This seems to satisfy you by your smile. Another kiss that you give him, the way your palms and fingers run against his chest, his shoulders, his neck. It’s making his mind spin feeling the moisture wetting your panties and resting against his belly, his hands twitching, wanting to pull them aside to soak his fingers deep into your pussy.

But you won’t let him.

This is already frustrating, being so close yet to so far, pleasure shivering down his spine at the prospect of you riding him for all he’s worth.

Your fingers grip into his sweater, bunching it above his stomach, feeling the full warmth of him now. Thank _fuck_ for those years being sweet on him. You feel yourself clenching already, grinding down against the fabric of his briefs, that distinct hardness of his cock eagerly straining there. Another roll of your hips and it’s merciless--John’s fingers twitch almost with a panicked violence, gripping the sheets when he has to recollect himself. _Be good. Be a good boy, do it for you._

“Look at you,” you whisper to him, leaning down, trailing your fingers against his bottom lip in reverence for that look of near _worship_ he’s gifting you. “My baby boy. You deserve it.”

“Please,” he can’t help but tell you back, husky and all.

John awaits with patience thinning, straining, his breaths coming in shallow when he should be reminding himself to inhale deep. He nearly does when you lean back to sit up on him, your shirt riding up and revealing to him those familiar scars, old and new. All beautiful, tragic, belonging and in memory of him. He wants to touch them so badly, to trace his fingers against the one right above your belly. Fresh and pink and new, wondering to him how many times you must be hurt just to wrench at his own heart.

The _wrath_ beneath your collarbone, mirroring his own _sloth_ as you shed his sweater away to the side. How your breasts rise and fall gently with each breath you take, cupped and secured and in need of his face between them in that lacy bra. You watch when his tongue reaches for his lips, fixated there, knowing exactly what he wants.

John doesn’t realize what he’s doing until you’re clucking your tongue at him again, having risen from the pillows beneath his head. With disapproval you hold him back, pressing him away from your breasts.

“Oh,” you tease, tracing a finger beneath his chin. “You were doing so good. You almost had it, John.”

_Yes, they’re precisely his weakness, your chest. And you’ll capitalize on that just to watch him fall to pieces, be this utter mess that he hasn’t felt in years._

“You get to watch again,” comes your voice, his eyes meeting yours as you expect his confirmation. He has to. He _must_. He nods.

The snap of your bra, the pulling of the straps down your arms, the cups falling away--he thinks he’s prepared for it all until he nearly stops breathing completely when he sees those silver bars of your piercings there.

John _literally_ lunges forward, hungry and _moaning_ in desperation to have his mouth on your nipples when you yank him by the back of his hair, keeping him in place with herculean effort to maintain any further advances.

He has to remember how to breathe, he has to _breathe_ but they’re coming out in such short puffs you’re almost afraid he’ll pass out. The cool air, the fact that he’s so _pleased_ by this choice of yours-- _when did you get this done?_ \--is enough of an answer to you, nipples hardened and feeling a palpable buzz humming against your sensitive skin there.

You can’t help but laugh. “I take it you like it, then?”

He nearly _whines_ it out. “God, _yes_.”

John’s eyes can’t move away, his teeth worrying into his bottom lip as you bring a hand up to cup one for him. A squeeze just to give him a treat, his hips restlessly squirming as your thumb toys a tiny silver bar back and forth there. He wishes it was him instead, can only bear to watch as you lean just another inch closer to his lips.

You feel his breaths there, shiver when he keeps a tight rein on his control. Poor man must be _dying_ just to put his mouth on you already. You know he won’t stop for _minutes_ if he had to with this strangely humorous fixation.

“Go ahead,” you murmur, leaning down a little more for him.

Nothing can stop that shocked cry you let out, his lips fastening around that sensitive bud of yours. That tightness of his mouth as he laps with vigor, pressing his face deeply, passionately against your breast. Even his hands have to get in on the action--pressing against your back to draw you impossibly closer to his face.

Your hands are braced against his shoulders, running soothingly at times against his scalp and the sore roots, yet he is ever feverish. You feel that bar twisting softly against his tongue, his mouth popping your nipple free as you release a quiet gasp. He watches it closely, his handiwork, the bruise sure to form there. His tongue peaks and teases the round edge of the barbell, noisily sucking just a moment at your soft flesh beneath it.

John’s gaze turns to the other unattended one, still some delighted man as his thumb reaches to mimic what you’d done earlier. A soft kiss before another hard suck of your nipple there, tongue doing devilish wonders. You can feel that heat going straight down your spine, your body humming, skin tingling with all of his effort. Your nipples feel even more sensitive than usual, John leaning you back without his notice, still tirelessly working at your breasts for what feels like hours until you finally have to pull him back once again.

The nipple he’s been working on pops free from his mouth, his hands reaching to squeeze and cup at the flesh he can’t seem to stop _loving_ so much until your voice breaks in.

“That’s enough. No touching.”

His hands don’t immediately retreat, so you wrench them away for him, his expression borderline _teary_ from being denied this.

You can feel that cursive _pride_ thrumming against your hand, but you just can’t help yourself either.

Maybe he doesn’t have to rightly complain for long. Not when you drag your panties aside, a lace pattern that mismatches your bra, but John finds it more _endearing_ if anything. He can already feel that dampness when you pull his briefs down as he kicks it the rest of the way, leaving him utterly naked and willing beneath you. Your palms braced against his chest as you lift yourself, his hand aligning his cock for you as you nestle yourself slowly on it.

John wants to hold you so _bad_ when he sees that look of pure, raw pleasure cross your face, his hands still twitching at his sides, trying to find purchase against the bed sheets as you sink down further on him. John, for all his past experiences, for all his lovers and addictions, can’t seem to shake away his own unrestrained desire, moaning for you as you brace against his chest yet again to start up a pace acceptable to you.

He doesn’t care what you choose--he just wants to _be_ with you, inside of you, feeling each plunge of him deep into your core. That burning, pleasant aftershock when he sinks in deep, a little too deep, sending the most brilliant of shivers racing up your spine. You love how _soft_ it is to be bouncing on top of him like this, his hair askew, imperfect against the pillows as you ride him for all he’s worth.

His gaze never leaves you, begging you, his voice growing louder and bouncing off the walls.

You don’t stop, nails digging into his _sloth_ , crying into him. You can almost hear the fabric ripping beneath his own fingers as he tries to get a grip on reality, watching your expressions like this hard-hitting drug. Sometimes he can’t look away from where he’s pounding into your pussy, a rhythm he would’ve thought would pass him forever. It doesn’t. Not when he sees how eager your folds are to swallow him in, the sweat on your brow as he subtly angles his hips to help guide his cock against the softness in your walls that would get you to utterly crumble.

He plays himself though--he really shouldn’t have. Because this angle is even better, even tighter for you, your cries driving him insane as you call out his name. He tries to touch you--but you’re steadfast, you won’t allow this, bracing him back to the mattress by his forearms above his head again. Using that leverage to fuck him even harder, the mattress squeaking with every plunge, your breath on his lips as his hips suddenly jerk erratically.

With wide eyes and a surprised moan, you pull back from John momentarily. Watching his expressions, his clenched eyes like you want to commit this all to memory. You feel it just as you realize it, John’s panting breaths coming out in final elation as his once-strained grip of his arms grow lax. The lurching of his hips until you can literally feel his orgasm hitting your walls, filling you to the very brim, _too much of it_ even. He’s never done this often, and for him to do so is a rare treat. You can feel that dripping warmth seeping past his cock and down your folds, deeper still as he’s come inside of you.

And before you.

But you don’t seem to mind, kissing at his dopey, smiling face as he gazes at you half-lidded, _thanking you_.

“You made a mess, John,” you tell him, watching as he eagerly inhales for his lungs.

He feels you slipping off from his cock, but he breaks your rule momentarily--he touches your hip, a raw passion filling his eyes as he whispers for you, “Sit on my face.”

For some reason you almost falter, as if trying to remind him what he’d just done, and he knows it, continuing, “You said I made a mess. Let me help you with that.”

The prospect at first is almost unnerving to you. It’s not like you haven’t swallowed for him before. He’s certainly done it for you. Maybe you shouldn’t be entirely surprised or caught off guard that John would want this, your pussy suddenly clenching at the mere thought now that he would. _Dirty man. Dirty, filthy man._

With a smirk he helps to guide you forward, your knees resting on either side of his head, your palms bracing on the headboard. It’s not like this is the first time you’ve sat on his face--if anything you’ve utterly _enjoyed_ it in past moments.

But the moment he goes in, no held bars, you nearly shriek, the headboard creaking under your grip. _Fuck_. He’s already using his hands against your ass to help spread your cheeks, bruised lips pressing a welcoming kiss to your swollen, straining clit. Tongue tracing a soft line down your folds until he’s exactly where he wants to be, groaning when he feels his cum dripping from your pussy.

The way you say his name is drawn out, dopey, almost embarrassed when he digs his face in deeper, his tongue even further. A sharp slap against your ass, his fingers digging in almost too much at once. John is relentless, eating you out, your hips grinding shamelessly into his face.

You want to feel that burn of his facial hair against your thighs, his hands guiding your every thrust. You hope he’s cleaned up well down there, taking every drop he has to offer. Hope he tastes even better now that he’s had it inside of you.

You tell him even if he can feel it, tongue deep inside of you as you choke out that you’re going to come.

Even through that thin sheet of sweat on your skin, his skin--it’s not nearly enough. It never is with you two, not after all this time.

John takes the reigns next, your quaking thighs after your orgasm failing to keep you upright. He wants to take care of you this time--with you on your back, chest rising and falling, but giving you even more reason to not be able to stand upright after this. Like the fact that he’s dug out his vibrator for you from beneath his bed, stored away for who knows how long. 

Not like you want to, or _can_ , question it; not when he’s pounding into you, making you spread yourself with hands beneath your knees, pressing the buzzing wand against your clit despite the delicious pace he’s setting in you.

That pulsating sound is enough to have you twitching, bruising your own flesh as you try to keep yourself spread for him. How one of his hands is stroking against the sensitive flesh of your inner thigh, the wet sound of him fucking you coming past between intervals of that pulsing toy. Your fingers wrenching, clawing, trying to find anchor despite the tears springing into your eyes and he’s whispering at you, feeling your pussy tightening with each thrust. That free hand of his doing everything he can to remain in contact, feeling your muscles spasming, your cries, _too much, please_ as he flicks the toy to a mind-numbing setting.

Witnessing that almost pained look on your face when it really _is_ too much, overstimulating, your eyes nearly rolling when he leans down. Kissing you open mouthed, feeling your orgasm building up only to crumble within moments with those streaky tears. He always said you were the prettiest when you did, a mess in the center of his bed, wetting his belly, his thighs, his lap in a gush when it all becomes too much for you to bear.

Your teeth latch onto his shoulder, needing comfort, his skin, biting down as you’re a whining pitiful mess for him again and again.

You skin is singing, _humming_ in the afterglow. That almost lazy, languid way John guides you onto your hands and knees, taking you from behind like the man is drowning in you, needing your flesh against his to keep himself afloat. Loving how his lips are trailing against your shoulder, fingers tracing lovingly those scars and imperfections against your back. A sigh when he pistons into you hungrily, his fingers reaching around, sweeping against your stomach, down to your clit where he’s mercilessly pinching and teasing at it.

It's enough to get you weak, trembling, your upper body slumping into the mattress as you come with a pathetic moan, squeezing your thighs together. How you literally collapse and can’t hold yourself upright anymore, and he’s still _going_ , still gripping his fingers into your ass to fuck you even here. Watching as he plunges within you, the head of him nearly slipping out before he’s completely enveloped by you.

How he leans down, pressing his full weight and you nearly come again right there, oversensitive but meeting his kiss over your shoulder. How comforting his body against your back is, his belly pressing against your ass, your lower back, pounding into you like it’s the only thing he has left going for him.

Neither of you don’t know how much time passes, positions switching, coming more times than you can count. John’s hair tousled and being smoothed back by your hands after he comes inside you again. His airy gasps against your lips when your fingers squeeze around his neck. That brief intermission you both take as he kisses your palms, your scars. Nothing but racy moans and gasps for oxygen in fleeting aftermaths. 

There’s a moment where your thighs are still quivering, and John is ever impatient, his mouth latching onto your clit. Your almost sheepish moan, fingers tugging at those sweaty locks for him to ease up when his fingers slip easily between your folds. How he presses upwards, seeking that softness, that trigger that gets your legs almost spasming, hips lurching upwards into his eager mouth. His other hand entwining with yours to give you some semblance of reality, to keep you grounded. It doesn’t last for long when your thighs clamp against his ears, that almost pitched, foreign, teary wail you give to him because it really is too much. How vigorously he fingers you, feeling that wetness collecting, _building_ in your belly, John’s willing mouth awaiting your orgasm.

As if you haven’t soaked enough of him already, but he wants this, _groaning_ as you come in his mouth, watching it drip down his chin as he eagerly swallows it down. His beard damp, his laugh even more hazy in that heat, licking eagerly at the stray drops racing down your trembling inner thighs.

You’re nearly too boneless to move, can barely summon the strength after it all comes to pass. John’s hips almost sluggishly pacing against you, taking you on your side, pressing himself as deep as he can. Like he wants something more, your skin buzzing, flushed, overstimulated. Just the feeling of his palms smoothing against your hips, your waist is almost too much to bear as he goes to pick up the pace, John’s lips kissing lazily against your cheekbone, a hand pressed against your thigh to keep you spread for him. Half laying on your front, upper body turned to shoot him a small glare.

How the fuck does he still have any energy left for this?

He’s nearly begging you for one more despite the almost _exhausted_ look you’re giving him, but he’s already gone. You can feel your body thrumming, sore, satisfied, yet somehow still welcoming his every plunge deeper against the mattress. You can feel how tender your flesh is there, John’s breaths racing against your cheek. Hitting you where he has been all night, the room’s air heavy with the stench of sex. Mind spinning, your nerves burning alight. 

This is all John this time--you can’t do it, at least you don’t think you can. And yet he can carry you, can push you to the limit. And maybe you can’t hear how hoarse and raw your throat is, not after what you’d done with your mouth to him, jaw still aching at the memory of taking him down. You can still taste him, taste yourself--so can he, matching him breath for heartbeat.

The fact that he can’t look away, urges you desperately to keep your eyes on him. A figment somewhere of those tired circles under your clouded eyes, how his body warmth is overpowering you. The pillows and blankets bunching between the _lust_ and _pride_ on your hands. He thinks about your pebbled nipples rubbing against the duvet and he’s nearly taken over the edge.

It’s too much for you all at once. Feeling him coming in you again, thinking about what he’ll do once he’s finished, and that gets you following him, falling for him all over again. John is vocal, unafraid of telling you what he loves, how much he enjoys this. His hair falling into his eyes again, hips lurching into your ass as he pushes you forward by the shoulders when you can’t help but collapse into the pillows, straining your thighs from his weight.

John’s nestled comfortingly against your body, in full contact, face against your neck. His chest heaving, the tapers of his orgasm subsiding as he fills you again. His eyes are closed, listening to you, feeling your humming, bruised skin beneath his fingertips as he senses your breathing almost soften, even out.

And with an almost shocked, delighted, and hazy laugh, John finds you utterly _passed out_ beneath him, knocked out cold.

Even when he pulls away for a moment to get a good look at you, brushing away the strands of hair that cling to your forehead, eyes shut and absolutely drained. His own locks are disheveled, unkempt as he tries to run a hand through them to comb it back properly. It doesn’t stop him from patting your ass one last time, kissing against a cheek and your sore folds.

A fan’s left running to cool you both off, John ensuring you’re still okay, readjusting you to him as he nestles into the covers. How he’s lying on his side, tracing his fingers against the oddly smooth and raised scar of the tattoo against your chest. When you turn over in your sleep and he can spoon you from behind, clutching and admiring that quaint little _pride_ beneath his fingertips. The little bishop still in place.

He tangles his legs with yours, digging his face into your hair. The cleanup tomorrow, he believes, will be worth it.

 

 

Directly across the bunker, somewhere between half an hour’s worth of your _reunion_ , a number of peggies and familiar neighbors crowd in the meeting room awaiting the two empty seats at the head of the hall.

Nick and Kim share a look with raised brows. Hurk pets between Boomer’s perked ears. Adelaide is wiping the sweat off her brow and fanning herself, asking if anyone else has some water to combat her hot flashes.

Sharky, however, is the first one to break the palpable silence, leaning forward in his chair.

“Raise of hands? I say they’re out havin’ a, uh, _meetin’_ of their own.”

Many hands do.

 

 

The first to awaken, believe it or not, is John.

Hard to sleep when a feline is stuffing her tail end against his forehead, mewling loudly for the disgruntled Seed to generously fill her food and water bowls. John only obliges when she’s pawing at his hand as he goes to shoo her away. He would, certainly--but you’re lying on _top_ of him, cheek against his chest, moaning out a satisfied yawn when he tries to carefully maneuver you over.

Both of you feel sticky, in dire need of a shower. And though there are no morning sunbeams to filter against your skin, John can almost imagine it when you turn your tousled head to smile sleepily up at him. That visible, faint scar spanning across your nose bridge and the height of a cheek bone. You still look stunning.

Your _g’mornin’_ is hazy, warm, and reminds him of pleasant days. His palm lazily massaging your thigh, the way you sit up just a little taller to brush that errant stand of hair out of his eyes. A part of him can feel those warm, tiny and solid metal bars pressing against his belly, your hair tickling his skin as he guides it away from your face.

Another meow at the bedside, Marlene awaiting patiently there, watching you both curiously.

You glance over at her, amused, and John’s strangely fixated on the adoration you dote on her. “Is my little baby hungry? Hmm?”

Another meow and you laugh, complying with her. “Alright, you win. You had to listen to all of that last night, I’m sorry, baby.”

Finally, you turn to John, humor in those eyes before kissing against his chest, down to his belly where he seems almost… _reluctant_ about you being there until you laugh against it, letting out a soft _mmm_ as you rest your cheek there. But he wants to see you, all of you, though you’ll let him soon, crawling up him to sit on his chest.

He’s already reaching over for the shower tokens on his nightstand--it’d be easy for people around here to be wasteful on the water supply, so you had to implement some method to reduce that. Just as he gets to them, however, your hand is trailing up to his own, grasping his wrist gently.

“I’ll feed the kids.” You look so _good_ with your hair falling forward like that, an easy, fond look on your face. “Get the water running. I’ll meet you in there.”

Something odd stirs in John’s chest. This blossoming warmth, this dreamlike veneration when you say that. The domesticity of it reaching and clutching at a part of him he didn’t know he wanted, desired.

“We won’t make it out with enough time to even wash,” he murmurs back, eyeing your breasts, stroking his fingers between them before pinching softly at a pierced nipple.

Your hand covers his, the ones with the sins. Being the voice of reason, as always. Smiling with cheek. “That’s why I brought mine, too.”

_One for tomfoolery, the other for clean-up._

You’ve never seen a man throw you onto the bed and race into the shower so fast in your life.

After scooping kitty food into Marlene’s bowl and refilling her water, setting another bowl out of seeds and other kibble for Hedy do you make your way to the bathroom. The water hasn’t run yet--you and John are comfortably silent brushing your teeth in the morning silence before he’s getting the shower to heat up.

Stepping in together, feeling that water racing down your sore and satisfied bodies. You study the way John smooths his hair back under the spray, his back taking the brunt of it as his hands grasp your waist. Pulling you closer, turning you so you’re completely soaked. He does the same for you, palms purposeful, soothing against the crown of your head where he’s pushed your hair back.

Something about this reminds you of Hope County. Days at his ranch. Even before when he’d none-too-gently submerged you underwater. There is something softer awake here, his hands still resting at your neck, thumb sweeping slowly against your chin, trailing down your throat. A cleansing that runs deeper than just the water washing away the night before, your thighs still sore, hard to walk.

John makes love to you in those moments lazily, gently. Against the shower wall, your palms braced against the tiles, his own hand finding comfort above yours. And when you come, when he comes, the shower _just_ shuts off--both your lazy, airy chuckles sounding off in the echo of the bathroom. He pops another coin in and you both stay true to your words, washing each other, your fingers lathering shampoo flakes into his hair, a sponge in his hand dragging softly against the small of your back.

Odd how after all this time, all these years with being able to speak so plainly to each other, you can’t seem to with the next one.

Your forehead against his, that blue gaze full of home. Belonging and caring. You don’t realize what you’re murmuring until it’s out of your mouth and visible for him, unguarded and vulnerable. Your body, your soul.

“I think I love you.”

John’s thoughts, words seem muffled by the rhythmic patter of the spray above. But you’re unwavering, unphased by that almost caught-off-guard expression he holds. You know what you feel, hands braced his chest, right beneath his heartbeat.

He laughs--not in delight, not in humor. Disbelief. The corner of his eyes crinkling, shaping fondly against those baby blue eyes. His teeth show when he can’t help but grin a little. “You _think?_ ”

He’s probably had many lovers tell him that they do, no thinking involved. A drugged up, heat of the moment kind of confession. The type of _for now_ love. Maybe he’s said it back before without ever meaning it. Maybe you’re just another person who loves him like that, too.

You still smile a little--in defeat, in disappointment?--before turning away from him to reach for the shower door. Dry yourself off before it can completely settle in. Start your day without letting it fully sink into your mind the consequences of this.

John’s arms stifle you from moving any further, wrapping around beneath your breasts, tugging your back flush against his chest in a vice. His chin on your shoulder, his face buried against the side of your neck. Your fingers dig into his forearms, feeling foolish for letting your guard down like that. _Stupid. Stupid, stupid, **stupid**._

He realizes that his reaction may have seemed admonishing, patronizing in retrospect. His voice softly apologizing to you as you try to wriggle out of his hold, feeling childish, reckless, eyes growing warm with the telltale sign of fresh tears.

You can hear him begging you at the shell of your ear, calling out your name, pleading for you to listen to him. And he’s finally saying it over and over again: _I love you, I’m in love with you, I’ve **been** in love with you, I’m sorry, please, listen to me--_

The inhale you take is sharp, shaky. Turning your head to meet his expression which has faltered, waiting for you, needing you in this moment with that fond gaze. You can feel him holding his breath. The belief that he’s ruined you, hurt you.

Then you were wrong. He’s never genuinely said it to anyone in his life, nor has anyone genuinely said it to _him_.

You remember old, faded words breathing to life when you see him, his parted lips, that familiar gaze. Like those moments before you could have taken his life, that realization of mercy unfolded, breaking free from the sky like a bird with a wounded wing.

_You need to open up your heart. You need to see that there is more love all around you._

He is beautiful. “Do you believe me?”

You nod, eyes shutting, and his lips meet the crown of your head, staying there.

The shower shuts off minutes after.

 

 

Few weeks pass, and that nauseous feeling in your gut has been flickering on and off all day.

Bless John’s heart, he’s been sweet enough to hold your hair back as you retch into the toilet bowl the second time today. It’s excuses about spoilt food, maybe something contaminating the water supply, maybe the stomach flu one of the kids passed onto you like a baton race gone wrong. 

John may be petty, superficial at times when he wants to be, but he’s certainly not an idiot.

His worried expression as you rinse your mouth off at the sink is enough for you to agree without complaint.

“Doctor. _Now_.”

Numerous samples, screenings, and checkups at the doctor’s office later, and for once, it truly _is_ some miracle.

The good doctor seems so utterly pleased, positively _glowing_ as if he’s the one expecting and not you, his hands braced over his heart after setting down his clipboard.

“I… I can’t stress this enough, you two, _congratulations!_ ”

For some reason he has to reach over to clasp John’s hand, shaking it with animated vigor as if he’d just won a horse race at the Kentucky Derby. John is thanking him with a politeness almost necessitated, gearing back towards you and how you’re handling this news.

You meet John’s eyes, watching as he braces a palm against your knee where you’re seated on the patient exam table.

“You okay?”

A little laugh, something that surprises him. “Are _you?_ This is _your_ kid too, John, I don’t know if you wanted this or--”

You trail off when you suspect that hidden, almost guilty and hopeful look in his expression, his teeth sinking into his bottom lip as he eyes where your belly has yet to show. Give it a couple weeks. He won’t be disappointed for long.

You accuse him with simple, not spiteful, words, mouth hanging. “You _do_.”

 _Caught and he’s still trying to play the cool guy_.

Your face twists, eyes turned into narrowed slits as you poke a finger into his chest. “Oh, you piece of _shit_ , don’t give me that look.”

The miracle doctor is still gushing, floored, imperceptibly shaken, speaking the words again like a cherub. You’re gonna have to write him a card after all of this. He’ll be delivering your baby in the next nine months and will finally die happy in this life. “Congratulations!”

“Thank you,” both you and John chime; one dry, the other pleased.

He leaves you two be in the office, probably scampering off to go gossip about that piece of news. And in that silence, you can hear the analog clock on the wall ticking, John’s hand comfortingly anchored on your knee still. He seems a little worried now, as if your reaction isn’t what he expected.

But you’re the voice of reason. Not fed up, not hating any of this. Just looking steps ahead as you always do, giving him a wary look.

“It’s gonna be a lot of work. You do know that, right?”

“I know.”

One of your brow raises. “We’re gonna lose a lot of sleep. I’ll be eating for two. I’ll be yelling at you. _A lot_.”

John’s lips kiss against the scar over your nose bridge. “I know. And it’ll be worth it.”

“You say that now.”

“I’ve seen you with the kids, Rook. You’ll be a great mother.”

This has your attention; the doting and caring of the bunker kids running around, of Nikita and Kim and Nick. “…Think so?”

His hands squeeze reassuringly against your own. “Know so.”

 

 

Months pass, and it goes to show because John is ever more fixated on getting on his knees to kiss at your stomach. When you’d gone out and visited the doctor again for checkups and ultrasound, the last thing you both expected was not another hearty _congratulations!_ but: “Wow! My goodness, you’re having _twins!_ ”

You’d been clutching at John’s hand so fucking hard during this news that you actually _dislocated_ his thumb.

Officially, though, you’ve completely nailed down the lordosis-inducing mom-waddle, shifting quietly into the dark room of one of the recreation halls. The projector is spinning, rows and seats filled with friends, neighbors and kids here for movie night. You can recognize the father-to-be even by the back of his head, seated all the way at the back nearest to the double doors.

Your gentle palm on his shoulder gets his attention, his eyes straying from the black-and-white film to the baby bump now in his face.

You lean down just as he’s distracted, kissing his forehead as your grip on his shoulder is used for leverage. “Hi,” you whisper. “Good movie?”

Without missing a beat, John is helping to guide you to sit in the empty seat next to him, asking you the usual woes that he never seems to tire of: _Do you need anything to drink? Eat? Are you comfortable enough? I’ll **make** it comfortable enough--_

“I’m fine, I really am,” you admit to him, almost too childishly but he accepts it.

John’s clutching your hand, kissing the back of it before resting it back in his lap, scooting his chair closer to yours. Anything that won’t strain you, no matter how little or small the effort may be.

You notice the film is _Dr. Strangelove_ , the black and white reel washing the room in an almost nostalgic glow. A nostalgia no living person in this room has any recollection of, won’t seem to remember now. It’s almost somber, bittersweet as you watch Dr. Strangelove abandon his wheelchair, has suddenly regained the power to walk in order to resume his nuclear operation. Memories of that bright flash, that hammer-hitting-anvil-like sound. The first weaponized use of nuclear weapons in a war you were never alive during.

You squeeze John’s hand a little tighter, his face turning to you, concerned in the washed-out light as he whispers, “Everything alright?”

A reassuring nod. “Yeah. Think one of the kids kicked.”

You can’t help but smile when his hand reaches over, warm and pleasant against your sweater, feeling for that hopeful, reaffirming movement. It doesn’t take long, not at all.

For some reason you both meet each other’s gaze when the ending montage rolls in, the iconic, almost bittersweet fanfare echoing from the speakers. Slim Pickens riding a nuclear warhead like a cowboy at his last rodeo, waving and slapping his hat in the air with gusto directly onto an unspecified target.

You both seem oblivious to the atomic explosions, the destructive power of it on the screen as Vera Lynn floods the room in that sentimental hope. Neither of you open your mouth to speak, taking in the changes, the past, the now, the future. _We’ll Meet Again_ as flash after flash, towering mushroom clouds sing a different song.

John’s hand squeezes yours one last time before you both turn away.


End file.
